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GIFT  OF 
Mrs.    W.    Earstow 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS 


FRESH   AND   FADED. 


BY   T.  S.  ARTHUR. 


"Take  us  the  foxes,  the  little  foxes,  that  spoil  the  -vines:  for  our  vines  have 
tender  grapes."— SOLOMON'S  SONG. 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.    M.    STODDART   &   CO. 

BOSTON:   GEO.  MACLEAN;   NEW  YORK:   WILLIAM   GIBSON    TR  • 

CINCINNATI:   QUEEN  CITY   PUBLISHING  CO.  • 

CHICAGO    AND  ST.   LOUIS;    J.  A.   STODDARD    &  CO.; 

SAN  FRANCISCO:  F.  DEWING  &  CO. 


cru 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

J.  M.  STODDART  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


••  •  .         i  • 

Westcott  &*  Thomson,  *Stereotypers\  JPhilada. 


CAXTON  PRESS  OF 
SHERMAN  &  CO.,  PHILADELPHIA. 


INTRODUCTION. 


AH,  if  they  would  never  fade  —  these  sweet 
and  fragrant  blossoms  !  If  the  little  foxes 
would  never  spoil  the  vines  !  They  do  not 
always  fade,  nor  are  the  tender  grapes  always 
spoiled.  There  are  many  brows  on  which  the 
orange  blossoms  are  as  fresh  to-day  as  when 
placed  there  by  loving  hands  in  years  long  past. 
They  will  always  be  fresh  and  fragrant.  Time 
has  no  power  over  them. 

But  they  fade  —  alas  !  how  quickly  !  —  on  so 
many  brows.  To  keep  them  fresh  —  to  bring 
back  their  sweetness  when  faded  —  is  the  lov 
ing  mission  of  our  book.  It  is  a  book  of  life- 
pictures.  It  takes  you  into  oth  :r  homes,  and 

M100493 


4  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

makes  you  familiar  with  other  experiences  than 
your  own.  It  shows  you  where  others  have 
erred,  what  pain  and  loss  have  followed,  and 
how  love,  self-denial  and  treason  have  turned 
sorrow  into  joy  and  threatened  disaster  into 
permanent  safety. 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

PAGE 

LITTLE   FOXES 9 


II. 
STRENGTH  AND  WEAKNESS 23 

III. 
LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED 40 

IV 
GROWING  COLD 57 

V. 
LITTLE  THINGS 61 

VI 
IN  DANGER..  80 


VII.       - 

TEN  YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE 92 

1* 


6        v  CONTENTS. 

VIII.       - 

PAGE 

A  HINT  TO  HUSBANDS 104 

IX. 
A  YOUNG  WIFE'S    SORROW 116 

X. 

LOOKING  FOR  WRINKLES 132 

XL 
A  NERVOUS  WIFE 144 

XII. 
ONLY  A  HUSBAND 160 

XIII. 
THE  FIRST  SHADOW 171 

XIV. 
NOT  APPRECIATED.  '. 183 

XV. 
SMILES  FOR  HOME 190 

XVI. 
THE  FOILED   TEMPTER 200 

XVII. 
DRIFTING  AWAY 219 


CONTENTS.  7 

XVIII. 

PAGE 

CAN  YOU  AFFORD  IT  ? 239 

XIX. 
THE  MEREST  TRIFLE 253 

XX. 
MARRYING  A  BEAUTY 266 

XXL 
JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE 334 

XXII. 
NOBODY  BUT  JOHN 345 

XXIII. 
LOVE,  A  GIVER 35^ 

*  XXIV. 
FIVE  YEARS  AFTERWARD 373 

XXV. 
WHAT  WILL  THE  WORLD  SAY? 380 

XXVI. 
WHEN  IT  WAS  OVER 405 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 


LITTLE   FOXES. 

SOBER,  half-discontented  face  at  the 
window — a  bright  face  in  the  street. 
The  window  is  thrown  open,  and  a 
smile  goes  from  the  bright  face  to  the  sober 
one,  giving  it  a  new  and  pleasanter  aspect. 
Both  faces  are  young,  that  at  the  window, 
youngest,  almost  childlike.  Yet  the  window 
face  is  the  face  of  a  wife,  and  the  street  face 
that  of  a  maiden  "fancy  free." 

"  How  strangely  I  was  deceived,  Bella !"  said 
the  lady  in  the  street. 

"  Deceived !  How,  Mary  ?  What  do  you 
mean?  But  come  in.  You're  just  the  one- 1 
wish  to  see." 

"  I  was  sure  I  saw  you  not  ten  minutes  ago 

9 


IO  LITTLE  FOXES. 

riding  out  with  Harry,"  said  the  young  friend 
as  they  met  and  kissed  at  the  door. 

cc"Qh  dear,  -  no! :   I    haven't  been    out  riding 
withrHan4?/  for  alrcionth." 

;  i^Jil'de'ed?;  ;  How's ;  that?  I  can  remember 
'when'  you  rode  out  together  almost  every  after 
noon." 

"Yes,  but  that  was  before  our  marriage," 
replied  the  young  wife  in  a  voice  that  made 
her  friend  look  into  her  face  narrowly. 

"The  husband  has  less  time  for  recreation 
than  the  lover.  He  must  give  more  thought  to 
business,"  remarked  the  friend. 

The  little  wife  tossed  her  head  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders  in  a  doubtful  way,  saying,  as  she 
did  so :  "I  don't  know  about  the  business.  But 
lovers  and  husbands  are  different  species  of  the 
genus  Homo.  The  explanation  lies  somewhere 
in  this  direction,  I  presume." 

"Ah,  Bella,  Bella!  That  speech  doesn't 
come  with  a  musical  sound  from  your  lips," 
remarked  the  friend,  smiling  yet  serious. 

"  Truth  is  not  always  melodious,"  said  Bella. 

"  How  is  it  as  to  sweethearts  and  wives  ?" 
asked  the  friend.  "  Do  they  belong  to  the  same 
class  ?" 


LITTLE   FOXES.  II 

The  question  appeared  to  reach  the  young 
wife's  ears  with  a  suggestive  force.  Her  voice 
was  a  little  changed  as  she  answered,  "  I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  not." 

Then,  after  a  moment,  she  said,  "And  you 
thought  it  was  Harry  and  I  that  you  saw  riding 
out?" 

"  I  was  certain  of  it.  But  it  only  shows  how 
one  may  be  mistaken." 

The  friend  had  been  scanning  the  young  wife 
for  some  moments  from  head  to  foot  in  a  way 
that  now  called  out  the  question,  "  Do  you  see 
anything  peculiar  about  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  was  answered. 

"What?" 

"  A  peculiar  untidiness  that  I  never  observed 
in  the  sweetheart." 

Bella  glanced  dowrn  at  her  soiled  and  ruffled 
dress. 

"My  neglige^  she  said,  with  a  little  short 
laugh. 

"  So  I  should  think.  Now,  shall  I  draw  your 
picture  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  have  an  artist  fancy." 

"Here  it  is:  Hair  lustreless  and  untidy; 
skin  dull  for  want  of  action  and  feeling;  a 


12  LITTLE  FOXES. 

wrapper  better  conditioned  for  the  washing-tub 
and  ironing-table  than  as  a  garment  for  the 
fair  person  of  a  young  wife ;  no  collar  nor  orna 
ment  of  any  kind ;  and  a  countenance —  Well,  I 
.can't  give  that  as  I  saw  it  a  little  while  ago  at 
the  window,  but  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  the  face  to 
charm  a  lover.  Perhaps  it  might  suit  a  hus 
band,  but  I  have  my  doubts." 

"Why,  Mary!     You  are  in  a  sportive  mood." 

"  No,  serious.  How  do  you  like  the  pic 
ture  ?  Let  me  compare  it  with  the  original. 
Fairly  reproduced,  I  believe.  I  hardly  think, 
though,  that  you  were  in  this  trim  when  Harry 
fell  in  love.  But  it  may  be  all  well  enough  for 
a  husband.  I  have  no  experience  in  this  line, 
and  can't  speak  by  the  card." 

Bella  felt  the  reproof  of  her  friend,  as  was 
evident  by  the  spots  that  began  to  burn  on  her 
cheeks. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  me  dress  in  party  style 
every  day  ?"  she  said. 

"  Oh  no  !  But  I'd  have  you  neat  and  sweet 
as  a  young  wife  should  always  be ;  that  is,  if  she 
cares  for  the  fond  eyes  of  her  husband.  I  verily 
believe  it  was  Harry  I  saw  riding  out  a  little 
while  ago !" 


LITTLE  FOXES.  13 

Bella  threw  a  quick,  startled  look  upon  her 
friend,  who  already  half  regretted  her  closing 
sentence. 

"Why  did  you  say  that?  What  did  you 
mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  only  said  it  to  plague  you,"  answered  the 
friend. 

"To  plague  me?"  There  was  an  expression 
in  Bella's  face  that  Mary  had  never  seen  there 
before.  Her  eyes  had  grown  suddenly  of  a 
darker  shade,  and  were  eager  and  questioning. 
Her  lips  lay  closer  together ;  there  were  lines 
on  her  forehead. 

"To  plague  me?"  she  repeated.  "Take  care, 
Mary." 

The  friend  wished  now  that  she  had  not 
made  that  suggestion,  and  yet,  since  making  it, 
doubt  had  reached  conviction  in  her  mind.  She 
was  sure  that  she  had  not  been  mistaken  as  to 
Bella's  husband,  but  who  was  the  lady  with 
whom  she  had  seen  him  riding  out  ?  Bella  had 
said  a  little  while  before  that  her  husband  had 
not  driven  her  out  for  a  month,  and .  yet  Mary 
felt  certain  that  she  had  seen  him  riding  out 
with  a  lady  at  least  three  or  four  times  during 
that  period.  Should  she  hide  the  truth,  or, 


14  LITTLE  FOXES. 

trusting  to  its  power  for  ultimate  good,  let  it 
appear  ?  There  was  no  time  for  reflection. 
She  spoke  now  rather  from  a  desire  to  help 
her  friend  into  a  better  state  of  perception  than 
from  any  clear  sight  in  the  matter. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that,  having  secured 
your  husband,  you  have  fallen  into  the  error 
of  thinking  that  personal  attractions  are  not 
needed  to  hold  him  by  your  side.  Now,  it  is 
my  opinion  that,  if  Harry  had  found  you  in 
your  present  untidy  condition — and  you  are 
often  in  no  better  plight — in  a  single  instance 
before  marriage,  he  would  have  broken  off  the 
engagement,  and  I'm  sure  that  in  a  suit  for 
breach  of  promise,  if  I  had  been  on  the  jury,  a 
verdict  in  his  favor  would  have  been  rendered." 

Bella  did  not  smile  at  this  closing  sally,  but 
sat  looking  into  her  friend's  face  in  a  strange, 
bewildered,  troubled  way.  The  intimation  that 
her  husband  had  been  seen  riding  out  with  a 
lady,  when  it  fairly  reached  her  thought,  gave 
her  a  sharp  pain.  It  had  never  entered  her 
imagination  that  he  could  look,  with  even  a 
passing  sense  of  admiration,  into  any  face  but 
hers — that  his  heart  could  turn  from  her  to 
another  for  a  single  instant  of  time.  She  had 


LITTLE   FOXES.  15 

perceived  that  he  was  colder,  more  indifferent, 
less  careful  of  her  pleasures  than  in  the  sunny 
days  of  their  courtship  and  betrothment,  but 
that  he  could  seek  another's  society  was  a 
thing  undreamed  of.  It  was  a  proverb,  this 
contrast  between  lovers  and  husbands,  and  she 
had  felt  that  she  was  proving  its  truth.  That 
was  all.  It  was  an  unpleasant  truth,  and  hard 
to  receive,  yet  she  saw  no  remedy.  But  now, 
by  a  word  or  two,  her  friend  had  startled  her 
into  a  different  view  of  the  case.  Was  her 
husband's  heart  really  turning  from  her?  She 
was  frightened  at  the  remote  suggestion,  for 
in  his  love  lay  all  her  world. 

"You  are  not  really  in  earnest,  Mary,  about 
seeing  Harry  riding  out  with  a  lady  this  after 
noon  ?"  she  said  in  a  voice  and  with  a  look  that 
revealed  fully  her  state  of  mind.  The  color 
had  left  her  face  and  her  heart  shook  in  her 
voice. 

"I  was  probably  mistaken,  Bella,"  replied 
the  friend,  "though  I  had  not  doubted  of  the 
fact  a  moment  until  I  saw  you  at  the  window  a 
little  while  ago." 

"  Did  you  notice  the  lady  particularly  ?" 

"No;    but  let  the   matter  pass,   dear.      No 


1 6  LITTLE  FOXES. 

doubt  I  was  mistaken.  It  is  worrying  you 
more  than  I  could  have  imagined." 

Bella  looked  at  her  friend  for  some  moments 
in  a  strange  way,  then  giving  a  low,  suppressed, 
wailing  cry,  bent  forward  and  laid  her  face  upon 
her  bosom,  sobbing  and  shuddering  in  such 
wild  turbulence  of  feeling  that  her  friend  be 
came  actually  alarmed. 

"You  have  frightened  me!"  said  the  young 
wife,  lifting  her  head,  at  last,  as  her  excitement 
died  away.  "Ah,  Mary,  if  I  should  lose  my 
husband's  love  it  would  kill  me !" 

"Then,  Bella,"  answered  her  friend,  "see  to 
it  that  you  neglect  none  of  the  means  required 
for  keeping  it.  If  you  would  continue  to  be 
loved,  you  must  not  grow  unlovely.  The 
charms  that  won  your  husband  must  not  be 
folded  up  and  kept  for  holiday  occasions,  and 
then  put  on  for  other  eyes  than  his.  You  must 
keep  them  ever  displayed  before  him — nay,  put 
on  new  attractions.  Is  not  the  husband  even 
dearer  than  the  lover,  and  his  heart  better 
worth  the  holding  ?  Look  back,  my  dear  friend, 
over  the  brief  moons  that  have  waxed  and 
waned  since  you  were  a  bride.  Put  yourself  on 
trial  and  take  impartial  testimony.  How  has  it 


LITTLE   FOXES.  I/ 

been  ?  Has  your  temper  been  as  sweet  as 
when  you  sat  leaning  together  in  the  summer 
twilight  talking  of  the  love-crowned  future  ? 
Have  you  been  as  studious  to  please  as  then, 
as  careful  of  his  feelings,  as  regardful  of  his 
tastes  ?  Do  you  adorn  yourself  for  his  eyes 
now  as  when  you  dressed  for  his  coming  then  ? 
As  a  wife  are  you  as  lovable  as  you  were  when 
a  maiden?  Bella,  Bella!  look  to  the  little 
foxes  that  spoil  the  tender  grapes  if  you  would 
have  love's  ripened  fruitage.  Love  is  not  a 
chameleon,  to  feed  on  air  and  change  in  every 
hue  of  condition.  It  must  have  substantial 
food.  Deprive  it  of  this,  and  it  languishes  and 
dies.  And  now,  dear,  I  have  warned  you. 
Meet  your  husband  when  he  returns  home  this 
evening  looking  as  sweetly  as  when  he  came  to 
you  in  your  father's  house,  attracted  as  the  bee 
is  to  the  flower,  and  note  the  manner  in  which 
his  face  will  light  up.  Did  he  kiss  you  when 
he  came  home  yesterday  ?" 

The  face  of  Bella  flushed  a  little. 

"  Husbands  soon  lose  taste  for  kissing,"  she 
answered. 

"  If  the  wife's  lips  remain  as  sweet  as  the 

maiden's,  never !" 

2*  B 


1 8  LITTLE   FOXES. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it," 
said  Bella.  "  Wait  until  you  are  married." 

After  the  friend  said  good-afternoon  the 
young  wife  went  to  her  room  and  cried  for  a 
good  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  she  commenced 
doing  as  the  friend  had  suggested.  Refreshed 
by  a  bath,  she  attired  herself  in  a  spotless  white 
wrapper  with  a  delicate  blue  belt  binding  her 
waist.  A  small  lace  collar,  scarcely  whiter  than 
her  pure  neck,  edged  and  tied  with  narrow 
azure  ribbon,  was  turned  away  from  her  swan- 
like  throat,  and  just  below,  at  the  swell  of  the 
bosom,  was  an  exquisitely-cut  oval  pin.  Her 
hair,  a  rich  golden  brown,  had  been  made 
glossy  as  the  wing  of  a  bird,  and  was  folded 
just  enough  away  from  the  temples  to  show 
their  delicate  cutting.  Two  opening  rosebuds, 
red  and  white,  nestled  above  and  in  front  of 
one  of  her  pearl-tinted  ears.  She  did  look 
lovely  and  lovable,  as  her  mirror  told  her. 

Harry  was  half  an  hour  later  than  usual  in 
coming  home.  Bella  was  sitting  in  the  parlor 
when  he  came  in,  waiting  for  his  return  with  a 
new  feeling  at  her  heart — a  feeling  of  blending 
fear  and  hope ;  fear  lest  he  was  actually  becom 
ing  estranged  from  her,  and  a  trembling  hope 


LITTLE  FOXES.  \Q 

to  win  him  back  again.  His  step  was  not  very 
light.  She  noticed  that,  for  her  ear  had  become 
newly  sensitive.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  through  the  window,  and  knowing,  there 
fore,  that  she  was  in  the  parlor,  came  to  the 
door  and  stood  there. 

"  Bless  me !"  he  exclaimed,  after  a  moment  ; 
"  how  charming  you  look !" 

And  he  came  forward  with  a  pleased  smile 
on  his  face,  and  taking  her  hand,  bent  down 
and  kissed  her. 

"  Sweet  as  a  rose  !"  he  added,  holding  her 
away  from  him  and  gazing  at  her  admiringly. 
How  her  heart  did  beat  with  new  delight ! 

"  Dressed  for  company  ?" 

There  was  just  a  little  shade  of  coldness  in 
Harry's  voice  as  he  suggested  the  probable 
reason  for  her  singularly  improved  appearance. 

11  Yes,"  replied  Bella. 

-Who?" 

"My  husband."  There  was  a  tenderTieart- 
flutter  in  her  voice. 

Harry  was  a  little  puzzled,  but  greatly 
pleased.  It  was  true  that  he  had  been  riding 
out  that  afternoon  with  a  lady,  a  handsome, 
attractive  woman,  who  was  throwing  around  his 


2O  LITTLE  FOXES. 

weak,  almost  boyish,  spirit  a  siren's  fascination, 
She  put  on  every  charm  in  her  power  to  sum 
mon,  while  the  foolish  wife  was  hiding  hers 
away,  and  taking  no  pains  to  hold  dominion  in 
the  heart  she  had  won  and  was  now  in  danger 

o 

of  losing.  Five  minutes  before,  the  companion 
of  his  ride  appeared  to  his  fancy  so  charming  in 
comparison  with  his  wife  that  he  felt  no  plea 
sure  at  the  thought  of  meeting  one  who,  since 
their  marriage,  had  seemed  to  grow  every  day 
less  and  less  attractive.  But  now  Bella  was 
his  queen  of  hearts  again ! 

"  And  you  really  dressed  to  receive  me,  dar 
ling?"  he  said  as  he  kissed  her  again,  and  then 
drew  his  arm  lovingly  about  her  waist. 

"  Yes,  for  you.  Could  a  true  wife  wish  to 
look  lovelier  to  others'  eyes  than  her  hus 
band's?" 

"  I  should  think  not,"  he  answered. 

She  understood  in  the  words  more  than  he 
meant  to  convey. 

There  was  a  rose-tint  on  everything  in  Bella's 
home  that  evening.  From  the  cold,  half-indif 
ferent  husband,  Harry  was  transformed  to  the 
warm,  attentive  lover.  How  many  times  during 
the  pleasant  conversation  that  followed,  as  she 


LITTLE  FOXES.  21 

turned  her  eyes  upon  him,  did  she  catch  a  look 
of  tender  admiration  or  loving  pride ! 

"  What  has  made  you  so  charming  to-night  ?" 
he  said  as  he  kissed  her  for  the  tenth  time. 
"You  look  as  pure  and  sweet  as  a  lily.5* 

"  Love  for  my  husband,"  she  answered,  and 
then  a  tear,  in  which  joy's  sunlight  made  a  rain 
bow,  stole  out  from  the  drooping  lashes  and  lay 
a  crystal  drop  on  her  cheek. 

She  made  no  confession  of  her  thoughtless 
neglect  of  the  means  by  which  hearts  are  held 
in  thrall  to  love,  though  her  husband  half 
guessed  at  the  fact  that  something  had  awak 
ened  her  to  the  truth. 

On  the  next  afternoon  Harry  rode  out  with 
a  lady  again,  but  that  lady  was  his  wife.  He 
was  never  afterward  in  danger  of  being  won 
away  from  faithful  love,  for  Bella  grew  in  his 
eyes  more  attractive,  more  charming,  more 
lovable,  every  day.  And  she  thus  saved  him, 
in  his  younger  and  less  stable  years,  from 
being  drawn  aside  from  the  right  way,  and 
both  herself  and  him  from  years  of  wretched 
ness. 

Don't,  fair  ladies,  neglect  these  personal  at 
tractions  because  you  are  married.  The  charms 


22  LITTLE  FOXES. 

that  won  are  just  as  potent  to  retain  affec 
tion.  The  beoqnninors  of  alienation  often  lie 

o  o 

just  here,  and  many  a  neglected  wife  has  lost 
her  husband's  heart  because  she  ceased  to  look 
lovely  in  his  eyes.  It  isn't  in  the  heart  of  a 
man  to  love  a  dowdy,  careless,  fretful,  unlovely 
woman.  The  husband  bargains  for  something 
very  different  from  this,  and  if  he  finds  himself 
deceived  will  assuredly  repent  of  his  bargain. 
So  look  to  it,  young  wives,  that  you  lose  not, 
through  carelessness  or  neglect,  a  single  charm. 


II. 

STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

;OU  coward !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Raymond, 
in  a  tone  of  impatience  that  could  not 
be  suppressed,  and  catching  up  his 
fragile  little  wife,  he  bore  her  in  his  arms  out 
among  the  breakers,  and  held  her  firmly  while 
the  foaming  surf  dashed  over  them.  She;  was 
white  and  shivering  when  he  brought  her  back 
to  the  shore. 

"There's  no  danger.  What  a  coward  you 
are !"  said  Mr.  Raymond,  half  in  anger,  as  his 
wife  stood  with  her  snowy  feet  just  buried  in 
the  edge  of  a  fast  receding  wave.  "  Come  back 
into  the  surf  again.  See,  there  are  over  a  hun 
dred  ladies  in  the  water  now." 

But  the  pale,  slender  little  woman  held  back, 
overcome  by  nervous  fears,  answering: 

"  No,  Henry,  I  do  not  care  to  go  in  again;  I'm 

23 


24  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

all  in  a  tremor;  the  water  is  too  cold  for  me." 
Her  teeth  chattered  as  she  spoke. 

"  Cold  !  Pshaw  !  the  water  is  warm  as  milk. 
You're  afraid;  that's  the  trouble.  I  wouldn't 
be  such  a  coward  for  a  kingdom.  Come 
along !  Another  dash  among  the  waves  will 
tone  up  your  nerves  and  put  courage  into  your 
heart." 

And  saying  this,  Mr.  Raymond,  a  strong, 
stout,  warm-blooded  man,  with  animal  courage 
enough  to  face  almost  any  danger,  partly  drag 
ged  and  partly  bore  his  weak  and  frightened 
wife  back  again  among  the  seething  waters, 
where  in  his  thoughtless  cruelty  he  permitted 
a  wave  to  break  entirely  over  her.  She  did 
not  expect,  and  so  was  not  prepared  for,  this. 
The  briny  fluid  entered  her  mouth  and  nostrils, 
strangling  and  terrifying  her  to  such  a  degree 
that  when  her  husband  carried  her  to  the  shore 
she  was  unable  from  nervous  exhaustion  to 
stand. 

Weak  brandy  and  water,  and  half  an  hour  in 
bed,  restored  Mrs.  Raymond's  nervous  system 
to  its  normal  condition,  but  no  persuasion  could 
induce  her  to  bathe  again.  Mr.  Raymond 
scolded,  taunted  and  ridiculed  her  for  this 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  2$ 

cowardice,  but  all  efforts  to  overcome  her 
timidity  were  in  vain.  Had  he  permitted  her 
to  make  her  way  gradually  into  the  surf,  to 
try  for  a  little  while  the  smooth  water  inside 
of  the  breakers,  she  might  have  gained  courage, 
and  at  last  found  herself  unterrified  among  the 
rushing  and  foaming  waves.  But  he  was  too 
impatient  a  man  for  this. 

From  the  seashore  Mr.  Raymond  took  his 
wife  to  Niagara,  where  he  lost  patience  with 
her  again.  He  wanted  her  to  pass  with  him 
under  the  great  sheet  of  water,  but  the  bare 
idea  made  her  shiver. 

"  There's  no  more  danger  for  you  than  for 
me,"  urged  her  husband.  "  Ladies  go  under 
the  Falls  every  day.  .  Come,  now,  be  a  brave 
little  woman.  It  will  be  something  to  talk 
about." 

"  No  inducement  would  tempt  me,  Henry," 
answered  Mrs.  Raymond. 

"Well,  I  always  did  hate  a  coward!"  broke 
from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Raymond  as  he  turned  in 
brief  anger  from  his  wife  and  strode  the  room 
with  the  sweep  and  strength  of  a  vigorous 
animal.  Without  a  thought  for  the  fears  of  his 
wife,  he  did  not  see  the  sudden  going  out  of 


26  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

light  from  her  countenance,  nor  the  pain  and 
fear  that  swept  over  it. 

Always  did  hate  a  coward!  And  had  he  not 
over  and  over  again  called  her  a  coward  ?  These 

o 

were  the  hardest  words  that  ever  came*from  her 
impulsive  husband's  lips,  and  the  hurt  went  very 
deep. 

"And  so  you  will  not  go  under  the  Falls 
with  me  ?"  he  said,  in  a  cold,  half-offended 
way,  turning  from  a  window  where  he  had 
stationed  himself  after  his  flurry  about  the 
room. 

"Yes,  I  will  go."  Mrs.  Raymond  did  not 
smile,  nor  speak  cheerfully,  nor  even  look  into 
her  husband's  face.  But  her  tones  were  firm. 
She  spoke  in  earnest. 

"You  will?"  Mr.  Raymond's  voice  leaped 
with  a  sudden  surprise,  in  which  pleasure  was 
mingled. 

"Yes."  Ah,  if  he  could  have  looked  past 
her  sober  face  and  seen  the  struggling  fears  in 
her  heart — fear  of  mortal  danger  contending 
.with  fear  of  losing  her  husband's  love! 

"  I  always  did  hate  a  coward  !"  Already  had 
passed  from  his  thoughts  the  memory  of  these 
unguarded  words.  But  could  she  forget? 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  2J 

Never !  "  If  he  hates  a  coward,  I  must  exhibit 
no  more  fears."  Not  in  any  utterance  of  words 
was  this  resolve  taken.  But  still  it  was  the 
fixed  law  of  her  life  for  all  the  time  to  come. 
What  were  bodily  harms,  or  death,  even,  to  loss 
of  her  husband's  love  ?  Nothing — nothing. 
But  had  she  banished  fear  from  her  heart? 
Had  her  sensitive  organization,  in  which  fear  of 
external  danger  was  almost  an  idiosyncrasy, 
changed  in  a  moment?  Oh  no!  She  was  the 

o 

same  as  to  this,  but  a  stronger  fear  held  weaker 
fears  in  subjection. 

And  so  in  an  hour  from  that  time  Mrs. 
Raymond  passed  under  the  avalanche  of  water 
that  came  thundering  down  into  the  abyss 
below.  Scarcely  with  a  higher  courage  or  a 
more  shrinking  consciousness  of  life  peril  did 
martyr  of  old  advance  to  the  stake  or  scaf 
fold.'  Pale  lips,  and  colorless  face,  and  trem 
bling  hands,  that  grasped  the  stout  arm  of  her 
husband,  were  all  in  evidence  of  what  she  suf 
fered,  but  these  were  scarcely  noted  by  Mr. 
Raymond,  who  felt  exhilarated  by  the  scene, 
and  exultant  at  having  overcome  the  vain  ter 
rors  of  his  nervous  wife. 

"  You  see  there  is  no  danger,"  he  said,  lifting 


28  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

his  hand  to  the  great  moving  wall  of  waters 
that  shut  them  from  the  world.  But  his  voice 
was  drowned  in  the  cataract's  thunder.  Soon 
she  began  to  draw  upon  his  arm.  Her  terror 
did  not  lessen  by  familiarity ;  she  was  panting 
to  return.  But  Mr.  Raymond,  with  something 
of  the  feeling  that  men  have  who  force  a  timid 
horse  to  the  very  side  of  a  locomotive  and  hold 
him  there  to  cure  him  of  fear,  kept  his  wife 
under  the  fall  until  she  came  near  fainting. 
How  near,  he  never  knew.  Mr.  Raymond 
praised  and  complimented  her  for  her  bravery 
without  having  the  most  distant  perception  of 
what  she  had  endured.  His  praise  was  grateful, 
and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  gone  with  him, 
though  whenever  thought  went  realizingly  to 
the  scene  under  that  terrible  sheet  of  down- 
rushing  water  which  shook  the  earth  in  its  fall, 
a  shudder  crept  through  her  heart. 

Next,  Mr.  Raymond  proposed  a  trip  in  the 
"  Maid  of  the  Mist."  Twice  since  their  visit  to 
the  Falls  had  Mrs.  Raymond  watched  this 
fragile  little  steamer  as  she  went  bravely — reck 
lessly,  it  seemed  to  her — almost  to  the  edge  of 
the  leaping  torrent,  which  seemed  to  grasp  after 
the  tiny  vessel,  eager  for  its  destruction.  No 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  29 

money  would  have  tempted  her,  no  power 
forced  her,  into  that  peril.  But  now,  trying  to 
shut  her  eyes  to  danger,  she  said  "  Yes,"  and 
prepared  to  go.  But  to  remove  all  perception 
of  danger  was  simply  impossible.  Firmly 
grasping  her  husband's  arm,  and  without  a  word 
expressing  her  terror,  Mrs.  Raymond  stood, 
with  pale,  closed  lips  and  eyes  wildly  dilated,  as 
the  boat  steamed  up  into  the  very  spray  of  the 
Falls.  His  was  the  enjoyment,  hers  the  suffer 
ing.  Death  might  come  to  her  in  almost  any 
of  his  usual  forms,  and  she  might  be  aware  of 
his  approach,  yet  remain  peaceful  in  soul  com 
pared  with  the  agitations  that  rent  her  on  this 
occasion. 

"What  a  brave  little  woman  you  have  be 
come  !"  said  the  pleased  husband  as  the  boat 
headed  round  and  left  the  point  of  danger. 
The  praise  was  grateful,  but  no  adequate  com 
pensation  for  the  pain  he  had  forced  her  to 
endure. 

"  And  now  for  Montreal  and  the  Rapids  !" 

"  I  would  prefer  going  back  and  spending  a 

week  at  Saratoga,"  answered  the  wife,  her  heart 

shrinking    at    thought    of    going    through    the 

Rapids  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  perils  of  which 

3* 


3O  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

were  greatly  exaggerated  in  her  imagination. 
She  had  read  of  them  and  heard  of  them  from 
summer  tourists,  and  the  dangers  of  the  pas 
sage  were  vivid  impressions  on  her  mind. 

Mr.  Raymond  understood  his  wife  in  this  ob 
jection  as  well  as  she  understood  herself,  but 
that  only  made  hmi  the  more  fixed  in  his  pur 
pose  to  go  down  among  the  Rapids.  He  must 
cure  her  of  this  foolish  weakness  which  was  in 
terfering  so  much  with  his  comfort  and  her  en 
joyment.  And  so  the  shrinking,  fearful,  reluc 
tant  little  woman  was  forced  to  encounter  new 
alarms  and  to  suffer  in  a  degree  that  it  was 
impossible  for  her  husband  to  comprehend. 
Thence  he  would  proceed  to  the  White  Moun 
tains  ;  and  though  he  knew  his  wife's  fear  of  a 
horse,  he  coolly  planned  an  ascent  in  which  she 
must  make  one  of  the  party.  But  excessive 
nervous  excitement,  continued  through  so  long 
a  period,  wrought  its  legitimate  effects  upon 
her  delicate  organization.  On  the  morning 
selected  for  the  ascent  Mrs.  Raymond  was 
too  ill  to  leave  her  bed.  At  first  her  impatient 
husband  accused  her  of  pretence,  but  he  was 
quickly  disabused  of  that  error,  for,  hurt  by  the 
allegation,  she  made  an  effort  to  get  up  and 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  3! 

dress    herself,    but    fainted   and    fell    upon    the 
floor. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  before  Mrs.  Raymond 
could  be  removed.  Then,  by  short  journeys, 
her  husband  bore  her  back  to  New  York,  their 
place  of  residence,  with  a-, feeling  of  discourage 
ment  in  his  heart.  Weakness,  timidity,  nervous 
fears — these  were  so  far  outside  of  his  organi 
zation  that  he  could  neither  sympathize  with 
nor  tolerate  them.  He  admired  boldness,  free 
dom,  strength,  courage,  but,  with  the  instinct  of 
a  nature  such  as  his,  despised  their  opposites. 
Not  being  a  man  of  much  self-denial,  or  very 
considerate  of  others,  Mr.  Raymond  made  little 
effort  to  conceal  from  his  wife  what  he  really 
felt  and  thought,  but  always  treated  her  weak 
ness  as  something  blameworthy.  It  took 
months  for  her  to  recover  fully  from  the  effects 
of  this  summer  tour.  But  for  the  feeble  babe 
that  lay  in  her  arms  when  the  next  season  came 
round  she  would  have  been  forced  through  the 
same  ordeal.  That  gave  the  stay-at-home  ar 
gument  its  full  value,  and  she  did  not  leave  the 
city,  except  for  a  couple  of  weeks'  residence  at 
'the  house  of  a  friend  on  the  Hudson.  It  was  a 
pleasant  summer  to  her  compared  with  the  pre- 


32  STRENGTPI  AND    WEAKNESS. 

vious  one,  but  Mr.  Raymond  fretted  over  it  as 
dull  and  stupid.  He  wanted  the  exhilarant 
ocean,  the  bold  cataract,  the  lofty  mountain 
and  the  fleet  courser.  There  was  joy  to  a 
temperament  like  his  even  in  the  face  of 
danger. 

A  few  years  went  on,  and  the  tremulous 
nerves  of  Mrs.  Raymond  did  not  grow  any 
firmer  in  the  face  of  bodily  peril.  She  was  a 
weak,  timid,  shrinking  woman  still,  only  more 
successful  in  hiding  her  fears  from  the  intelli 
gent  eyes  of  her  ruddy,  robust,  iron-nerved 
husband,  who,  to  use  his  own  boastful  words, 
did  not  know  the  quality  of  fear. 

But  there  is  more  than  one  kind  of  strength 
and  courage.  That  which  Mr.  Raymond  pos 
sessed  is  shared  with  the  lion  and  the  bear :  it 
was  animal  courage  and  strength.  The  courage 
to  look  disaster  in  the  face,  to  stand  up  bravely 
in  the  front  of  adverse  opinions,  to  walk  stead 
ily  onward  in  the  path  of  duty  though  men 
sneer  and  blame,  to  be  true  to  honor  and  virtue 
amid  the  sorest  temptations,  to  do  right  even 
though  friends  and  fortune  are  lost, — this  is  the 
higher  form  of  courage,  this  is  to  have  real 
strength.  And  the  day  was  at  hand  in  which 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  33 

Mr.  Raymond  was  to  be  tried  by  the  truer 
standard. 

Mrs.  Raymond  had  noticed,  with  concern,  a 
growing  abstraction  on  the  part  of  her  husband. 
His  wonted  cheerfulness  was  gone,  and  grad 
ually  lines  of  care  and  trouble  began  to  show 
themselves  on  his  face.  He  went  out  alone  in 
the  evening  more  frequently  than  before,  and  to 
her  questions  answered  that  he  had  business 
engagements.  Then  he  had  calls  from  men 
not  known  to  Mrs.  Raymond,  who  would  sit 
late  in  his  private  room,  and  sometimes  their 
voices,  in  loud  and  earnest  talk,  would  startle 
her  with  vague  anxieties.  That  something  was 
going  wrong  she  felt  sure,  but  had  not  the 
remotest  intimation  of  its  nature,  though  she 
had  time  and  again  endeavored  to  win  the  con 
fidence  of  her  husband. 

The  truth  was,  commercial  ruin  impended, 
and  Mr.  Raymond  was  beating  about  with  more 
of  blind  desperation  than  calm  judgment  in 
search  of  the  way  to  extricate  himself.  To 
take  this  weak,  fearful,  timid  little  wife  into  his 
counsels  was  never  thought  of  for  a  moment. 
He  must  save  her  from  shock  and  harm  if 
possible  The  storm  that  was  lowering  in  his 


34  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

sky  must  not  strike  upon  her,  for  at  the  first 
touch  of  its  chill  winds  leaf  would  wither  and 
blossom  fall.  Now  he  felt  for  her  a  deeper  and 
more  pervading-  tenderness.  The  threatened 
danger  he  could  fully  comprehend,  and  if  the 
evil  lowering  in  the  sky  was  so  fearful  to  him, 
would  she  not  die  in  terror  at  its  first  frown  ? 
Carefully  he  sought  to  guard  her,  and  jealous 
ly  he  concealed  all  intimations  of  peril.  But 
she  was  not  deceived.  Great  peril  she  knew  to 
be  at  hand,  though  in  ignorance  of  its  nature. 

One  evening  two  men  were  alone  with  her 
husband.  She  had  noticed,  on  their  being  an 
nounced  by  the  servant,  an  expression  on  his 
face  that  startled  her  by  its  strangeness.  He 
had  risen  up  quickly,  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  in  a  slightly  agitated  manner.  Half  an 
hour  subsequently,  as  Mrs.  Raymond  passed 
the  door  of  her  husband's  office,  or  private 
room,  whither  he  had  taken  his  two  visitors, 
she  was  startled  by  hearing  one  of  the  men  say 
in  an  urgent  voice : 

"  It's  your  only  chance,  Mr.  Raymond." 
There  was  dead  silence  for  a  few  moments. 
Mrs.   Raymond   held  her  breath,  listening  for 
the  answer. 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  35 

"It  takes  a  brave  man  to  look  ruin  in  the 
face."  Was  that  her  husband's  voice?  How 
full  of  bitterness !  How  depressed !  How 
shorn  of  its  confidence ! 

"A  braver  man  than  I,"  was  responded. 
"  But  why  talk  of  ruin,  with  the  means  of  safety 
within  your  grasp,  Mr.  Raymond?" 

"  I  do  not  like  the  means." 

"  Does  a  drowning  man  hesitate  when  the 
means  of  escape  are  offered  ?" 

There  came  no  reply  to  this  question. 

"  Think  of  all  the  terrible  consequences  that 
must  follow,  Mr.  Raymond.  It  will  kill  your 
wife !" 

The  groan  that  parted  the  lips  of  Mr.  Ray 
mond  was  audible  to  the  startled  listener's 
ears. 

"  Mercantile  dishonor,  ruined  fortunes,  a 
tainted  name,  even — for  against  every  un 
fortunate  man  there  are  some  to  whisper  of 
fraud  and  wrong:  think  of  these  things,  Mr. 
Raymond  " — thus  urged  the  tempter — "  and 
then  decide  the  question.  Get  beyond  this 
extremity,  and  all  will  be  well.  No  wrong  is 
intended,  and  none  need  ensue.  This  money 
pressure  is  but  temporary.  Keep  your  credit 


36  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

unsullied,  and  when  this  sudden  storm  is  over 
you  will  find  yourself  on  smooth  water  with  a 
sunny  sky  above.  Everything  depends  on  your 
keeping  afloat  now.  If  you  go  under,  all  is  lost 
now  and  for  ever.  Desperate  diseases  require 
desperate  remedies." 

"  If  I  stood  alone,"  said  Mr.  Raymond,  in  a 
tone  so  full  of  trouble  that  it  brought  tears  to 
the  eyes  of  his  listening  wife,  "  I  would  not 
hesitate.  The  remedy  you  propose  is  worse 
than  the  disease,  and  I  would  die  rather  than 
take  it.  But  other  lives  hang  on  mine.  Ruin 
will  not  pause  when  I  go  down,  but  trample 
ruthlessly  on  other  hearts." 

The  door  of  the  room  swung  firmly  open, 
and  the  apparition  of  a  woman  startled  the 
inmates. 

"  You  do  not  stand  alone !"  said  a  brave 
voice,  and  Mrs.  Raymond  moved  to  the  side  of 
her  husband.  Her  step  was  strong,  her  form 
lifted  to  its  full  height,  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
quickly-moving  blood,  her  mouth  calm  and 
resolute,  her  eyes  full  of  strength  and  courage. 
"  And  therefore  the  stronger  reason  why  you 
should  hesitate.  Take  no  further  counsel  of 
these  men,"  she  added,  her  tones  growing 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  37 

almost  severe ;  "  the  little  I  have  heard  them 
say  tells  me  that  they  are  not  safe  advisers. 
If  the  ruin  they  predict  is  to  fall,  let  it  fall,  but 
keep  your  honor  unsullied.  I  am  brave  enough 
to  stand  by  your  side  in  any  trouble  that  God 
in  his  wisdom  may  send,  but  not  brave  enough 
to  meet  the  consequences  that  will  surely  fol 
low  if  you  go  forward  in  the  way  that  is  now 
proposed." 

Mr.  Raymond  turned  and  looked  into  the 
face  and  upon  the  form  of  his  wife  with  an 
expression  of  surprise,  doubt  and  astonish 
ment 

"  Are  you  brave  enough,"  he  asked,  "  to 
meet  wide-sweeping  ruin  ?  to  give  up  this 
luxurious  home  ?  to  go  down  into  poverty 
and  neglect?" 

"  If  my  husband  comes  out  of  the  fiery  trial 
as  gold  from  the  crucible— yes,"  was  calmly 
answered. 

"  My  good  name  will  suffer." 

"  Through  false  assertion  !"  Mrs.  Raymond 
spoke  quickly. 

"  Yes,  for  I  have  not  purposely  wronged  any 


man." 


"The    good    heart   will    be    my    tower    of 


38  STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS. 

strength,"  she  said,  a  bright  smile  touching  her 
lips. 

"  You  are  answered."  Mr.  Raymond  looked 
from  his  wife  to  the  men  who  a  little  while  be 
fore  had  nearly  drawn  him  away  from  the  path 
of  honor  and  safety.  His  countenance  grew 
almost  stern.  "  Let  the  worst  come.  My  feet 
have  touched  the  solid  rock,  and  shall  rest 
thereon,  immovable." 

And  silently  the  baffled  tempters  withdrew. 
Not  to  advise  Raymond  for  his  own  safety  had 
they  come,  but  to  secure  an  advantage  for  them 
selves  by  means  that  would  have  wronged 
others  and  surely  disgraced  the  unhappy,  be 
wildered  and  almost  desperate  man  they  were 
dragging  to  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 

"  Tell  me  all,  dear  husband — all,  all !  I  am 
strong  enough  to  bear  the  worst,  and  brave 
enough  to  stand  by  your  side  facing  the  whole 
world.  Misfortune  comes  not  alone  to  us.  It 
falls  upon  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  and 
shall  we  not  bear  it  patiently  ?  Not  from  with 
out  is  real  happiness,  but  from  within.  Reverses 
and  changes  cannot  rob  us  of  love,  peace  and 
the  blessing  that  God  sends  always  to  the  pure 
of  heart." 


STRENGTH  AND    WEAKNESS.  39 

Mr.  Raymond  told  her  all,  and  she  listened  to 
the  statements  which  left  no  shadow  of  hope 
without  blanching  cheek  or  quivering  lip.  The 
timid,  feeble  little  woman,  who  shuddered  in 
sight  of  the  cataract  and  grew  pale  and  faint 
as  the  surf  swept  toward  her  fragile  form, 
stood  up  without  a  shrinking  nerve  as  the 
tempest  of  misfortune  grew  black  overhead. 
Brave,  hopeful  words  came  from  her  lips,  and 
strength  from  her  strong  heart  passed  to  the 
fainting  and  fearful  heart  of  her  husband, 
who,  but  for  her  courageous  bearing,  would 
have  stumbled  in  the  path  of  duty,  and  sullied 
through,  the  weakness  of  terror  a  good  name 
which  he  still  bears  proudly  before  all  men. 


III. 

LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED. 

IRS.  EARLY  had  been  fretted  at  the 
breakfast-table.  The  butter-knife 
not  being  in  its  place  beside  the 
butter-plate  had  given  occasion  for  a  sharp 
reprimand. 

"  Don't  let  me  have  to  speak  of  that  again," 
said  Mrs.  Early  to  the  servant  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  made  her  husband's  flesh  creep,  as 
we  say. 

Mr.  Early  glanced  into  her  face,  but  its  ex 
pression  was  so  disagreeable  to  him  that  he 
turned  his  eyes  away.  At  the  same  time  there 
came  into  his  thoughts  these  lines  of  Shake 
speare's  : 

.  "  A  woman  moved  is  like  a  fountain  troubled, 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty, 
And  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip  or  touch  one  drop  of  it." 
40 


LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED.  41 

When  it  is  known  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Early 
had  been  man  and  wife  for  only  about  six 
months,  it  will  be  admitted  that  something  was 
going  wrong.  The  young  husband  had  plucked 
his  rose,  the  sweetest  to  him  that  the  garden 
bore,  but  somehow  it  was  losing  beauty  and 
fragrance. 

The  morning  meal  passed  almost  in  silence. 
Mr.  Early  kept  his  eyes  for  most  of  the  time  on 
his  cup  and  plate.  It  was  never  pleasant  to 
look  at  his  wife  when  she  was  out  of  humor. 
The  expression  of  her  face  hurt  him.  Why 
was  she  out  of  humor?  You  know  the  cause. 
A  careless  or  hurried  servant  had  forgotten  the 
butter-knife  in  setting  the  table — that  was  all. 

Mr.  Early  only  took  one  cup  of  coffee  on 
that  morning.  He  usually  drank  two.  Finish 
ing  the  meal  before  his  wife  was  done,  he 
pushed  back  his  chair,  and  rising,  said,  "  I'm  in 
a  hurry  this  morning." 

He  did  not  come  round  the  table  to  kiss  his 
wife — a  little  ceremonial  which  she  had  so  per- 
severingly  required  at  every  daily  parting  that 
her  matter-of-fact  husband  began  to  rebel  at 
the  constrained  salutes — but  turned  off  abruptly 
and  went  into  the  hall  to  get  his  hat.  Particu- 


42  LOVE   NOT  CONSTRAINED. 

larly  was  the  kissing  humor  absent  on  this 
morning.  Kissing  was  with  him  a  sign  of  love, 
and  he  saw  no  image  of  love  in  the  troubled 
fountain  of  his  young  wife's  spirit. 

"Why,  Frank!"  cried  Mrs.  Early  in  surprise, 
and  with  reproof  in  her  tone.  He  understood 
what  she  meant,  but  it  was  always  a  hard  thing 
for  him  to  act  against  his  feelings.  Just  then 
his  wife  was  unlovely  in  his  eyes,  and  he  didn't 
want  to  kiss  her. 

"Good-morning!  I'm  in  a  hurry,"  and  he 
started  for  the  street  door. 

Mrs.  Early  waited*  until  he  was  near  the  end 
of  the  hall,  and  then,  springing  up  from  the 
table,  ran  after  him.  He  heard  her  coming,  but 
did  not  pause.  Opening  the  door,  he  passed 
out  and  shut  it  behind  him.  He  felt  that  there 
was  something  hard,  almost  cruel,  in  this,  but 
the  fountain,  in  his  eyes,  was  "muddy,"  and 
he  had  no  desire  to  "  sip  "  or  touch  one  drop 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Early  stood  in  surprise  and  disappoint 
ment  for  some  moments,  and  then  going  into 
the  little  parlor,  sat  down  and  cried.  Unfortu 
nately,  she  did  not  clearly  understand  the  case 
— did  not  see  how,  if  there  was  defect  of  love 


LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED.  43 

on  her  husband's  part,  it  was  because  she  had 
made  herself  less  lovely  in  his  eyes. 

When  Mr.  Early  returned  at  dinner-time  he 
was  in  a  repentant  mood,  and  wished  to  atone 
by  words  and  acts  of  tenderness  for  his  neglect 
of  the  morning.  But  his  wife  gravely  declined 
the  proffered  kiss,  and  looked  at  him  with  sober, 
accusing  eyes. 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  please !"  was  the  slightly- 
offended  remark  of  Mr.  Early,  and  taking  up 
a  book,  he  sat  down  and  read  until  the  bell  an 
nounced  dinner. 

The  meat  was  overdone,  and  Mrs.  Early 
scolded  about  it  sharply. 

"A  poor  sauce  for  a  bad  dinner!"  So  Mr. 
Early  thought,  but  of  course  kept  his  thoughts 
to  himself. 

Trifling  omissions  in  setting  the  table,  which 
a  quiet  word  aside  to  the  servant  would  have 
instantly  supplied,  were  made  the  occasion-  of 
sharp  reprimands  that  were  especially  disagree 
able  to  Mr.  Early.  He  ate  in  silence  and  with 
contracted  brows.  Strangely  oblivious  to  the 
real  effect  upon  her  husband  of  her  table-lectur- 
ings  and  complainings,  Mrs.  Early  kept  up  her 
fault-finding  almost  to  the  end  of  the  meal.  She 


44  LOVE   NOT  CONSTRAINED. 

was  in  an  unhappy  humor,  and  gave  voice  to  it, 
as  a  kind  of  relief,  without  reflection.  If  she 
could  have  known  just  what  was  passing  in  her 
husband's  mind,  her  lips  would  have  been  closed 
in  sudden  silence.  You  may  think  it  strange 
that  her  perception  was  at  fault.  Her  husband 
thought  it  strange.  Indeed,  he  felt  that  she 
must  have  known  how  unpleasantly  her  conduct 
was  affecting  him,  and  this  gave  him  leas  pa 
tience.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  giving 
annoyance  willfully. 

Mr.  Early  left  the  dinner-table,  as  he  had  left 
the  breakfast-table,  abruptly,  and  went  away  to 
his  business.  The  parting  kiss,  as  in  the  morn 
ing,  was  omitted.  This  time  the  young  wife  did 
not  ask  for  it.  There  was  considerable  crying 
through  the  afternoon,  and  some  thinking. 
After  the  crying  came  the  thinking.  There  was 
a  calmer  state,  but  perception  was  at  fault  in  the 
main.  Pride  came  in  to  dim  the  clearness  of 
her  mental  vision. 

"  I'll  not  beg  for  love !"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  If  he  has  no  kisses  to  give,  I  will  not  gain  them 
through  solicitation." 

So,  when  her  husband  came  back  at  day's  de 
cline,  she  met  him  with  a  composed  manner, 


LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED.  45 

slightly  reserved,  and  without  an  intimation  that 
she  desired  or  expected  the  kiss  he  had  prepared 
himself  to  give.  We  say,  prepared  himself  to 
give,  not  from  love,  but  from  constraint.  The 
kiss  was  not  offered.  There  was  a  manner 
about  the  young  wife  that  caused  him  to  with 
hold  it — a  manner  not  usual,  and  not  quite 
understood. 

During  tea-time  no  jar  occurred.  If  every 
thing  was  not  just  to  Mrs.  Early's  mind,  she  re 
pressed  complaint.  Once  or  twice  her  husband 
saw  a  cloud  forming  and  began  to  brace  him 
self  for  a  storm,  but  there  fell  no  rain,  flashed 
no  lightning.  A  few  quiet  sentences  passed 
during  the  meal.  They  felt  better  on  rising 
than  when  they  sat  down.  Early  looked  into 
his  wife's  face,  soberer  than  usual,  yet  veiled 
with  a  kind  of  tender  depression  that  touched 
his  feelings.  "  Have  I  been  unkind  ?"  he  said 
to  himself.  The  very  question  softened  him. 
His  wife  came  round  the  table  and  stood  by  his 
side.  They  walked  from  the  room  together 
into  the  lower  hall  and  up  the  stairs.  On  the 
way  he  drew  his  arm  about  her  waist,  then  bent 
down  and  kissed  her  lips — not  with  constraint, 
nor  with  a  careless  dash,  but  with  a  soft,  linger- 


46  LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED. 

ing  pressure  born  of  a  loving  impulse.  The 
low,  sweet  thrill  that  ran  through  the  heart  of 
Mrs.  Early  was  almost  new  to  her. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked  herself,  in 
a  kind  of  surprise,  as  she  leaned  toward  her 
husband,  yielding  to  the  closer  pressure  of  his 
arm.  On  reaching  their  sitting-room,  Mr.  Early 
withdrew  his  arm  gently,  and  taking  up  a  book 
sat  down  to  read.  Neither  was  yet  entirely  at 
ease.  Something  unpleasant  had  arisen  be 
tween  'them,  and  it  was  not  yet  wholly  re 
moved. 

Mrs.  Early's  thoughts  were  still  more  than 
usually  active.  Seeing  that  her  husband  was 
getting  absorbed  in  his  volume,  she  took  a  late 
magazine  and  tried  to  find  interest  in  its  pages. 
She  had  not  read  far  before  a  passage  arrested 
her  attention  that  made  her  heart,  beat  quicker. 
She  read  it  again,  and  then  began  pondering  its 
meaning.  We  give  the  passage : 

"Love  is  not  constrained,  but  spontaneous. 
It  is  dimmed  by  solicitation,  it  is  hurt  by  chid- 
ings.  If  you  would  be  loved,  you  must  put  on 
the  graces  of  loveliness.  Thousands  of  young 
wives  have  poured  out  unavailing  tears  for  the 
love  they  might  have  kept  by  sweet  deportment. 


LOVE  NOT  CONSTRAINED.  47 

They  fret  over  things  disagreeable  in  their 
households,  they  scold  their  servants  at  meal 
times,  they  veil  their  countenances  with  peevish 
ness,  dissatisfaction  or  anger,  and  then  demand 
kisses  and  signs  of  love  !  But  love  is  repelled, 
not  won.  From  all  this  comes  estrangement, 
not  conjunction." 

Almost  stealthily,  after  reading  the  passage 
twice,  did  Mrs.  Early  glance  across  to  her  hus 
band.  His  face  was  in  repose ;  his  lips  wore  a 
pleasant  expression ;  his  book  was  interesting 
him.  Rising,  she  quietly  left  the  room.  Sitting 
down  in  another  apartment  alone,  she  began  re 
viewing  her  conduct  in  the  light  of  this  new 

o  o 

revelation,  and  saw  it  as  she  had  never  seen  it 
before.  Her  cheeks  burned  as  she  remembered 
how  rarely  a  meal  had  passed  of  late  without 
its  quietness  being  marred  by  reprimands  ad 
dressed  to  the  cook  or  waiter.  She  was  almost 
always  fretted  at  the  table  because  of  some  ne 
glect  or  deficiency  which  a  little  forethought  on 
her  part  might  have  remedied,  and  so  very  few 
meals  were  really  enjoyed  by  either  herself  or 
husband. 

"I  will  reform  all  this !"  said  Mrs.  Early  when 
the  whole  case  stood  out  clearly  before  her. 


48  LOVE   NOT  CONSTRAINED. 

"I  don't  wonder  now  at  the  variable  temper 
of  my  husband,  hitherto  a  mystery — at  the  fact 
that  clouds  have  fall-en  so  often  and  so  suddenly 
over  the  sunshine  of  his  face.  The  fault  was 
my  own.  As  for  kisses,  I  will  win,  not  demand 
them,  in  the  future.  If  they  are  withheld,  I  will 
look  for  the  cause  in  myself,  and  not  in  my  hus 
band." 

On  the  next  morning,  a  little  before  the  break 
fast-hour,  Mrs.  Early  went  down  to  the  dining- 
room  and  kitchen  to  see  if  things  were  being 
done  in  riofht  order.  Two  or  three  serious 

o 

omissions  met  her  eyes.  She  repressed  her 
quickly-rising  anger,  and  instead  of  scolding 
until  her  blood  was  heated,  calmly  but  seriously 
pointed  out  the  neglect,  for  which  there  came 
an  instant  acknowledgment  and  a  promise  not 
to  be  careless  again. 

Still,  even  with  this  care  and  forethought,  all 
defects  were  not  foreseen  and  mended.  On 
taking  the  cover  from  the  sugar-bowl  on  sitting 
down  to  the  table,  the  vessel  was  found  empty. 
This  was  a  thing  of  frequent  occurrence,  and 
was  usually  accompanied  by  a  sharp  reproof, 
given  volubly  and  with  angry,  flashing  eyes. 

A  slight  premonitory  shiver  ran  along  the 


LOVE   NOT  CONSTRAINED.  49 

nerves  of  Mr.  Early.  There  had  been  an  en 
joyable  calm  and  pleasant  sunshine,  but  here 
came  the  cloud  again,  suddenly  darkening  the 
summer  sky.  He  paused  for  the  storm  to 
break. 

But  there  was  no  storm.  There  was  scarcely 
a  dimming*  of  the  light  in  his  wife's  face.  She 

o  o 

lifted  the  empty  bowl  in  a  quiet  way  and  handed 
it  to  the  servant,  speaking  to  her  aside  and  in 
an  undertone.  The  servant  said,  "  Oh,  how 
could  I  have  forgotten  ?"  with  sincere  regret  in 
her  voice,  and  quickly  supplied  the  omission. 

When  Mrs.  Early  looked  across  the  table  and 
saw  the  expression  of  her  husband's  eyes,  which 
were  fixed  upon  her,  she  had  her  reward.  Ad 
miration  was  slightly  veiled  by  wonder. 

How  very  small  this  incident !  What  a  trifle 
it  seems  !  But  little  things  are  pivots  on  which 
the  motion  of  greater  things  depends.  They 
are  the  keys  by  which  we  often  unlock  treasure- 
houses  of  happiness  or  misery. 

When  Mr.  Early  arose  from  the  breakfast- 
table  his  wife  did  not  spring  up  as  usual  to  de 
mand  her  parting  kiss,  but  sat  with  a  gentle, 
subdued  aspect,  looking  at  her  husband  with 
love-lighted  eyes.  He  came  round  the  table, 


SO  LOVE   NOT  CONSTRAINED. 

and,  stooping,  touched  her  lips  in  a  pressure 
worth  more  than  all  the  kisses  she  had  extorted 
from  him  in  a  month — worth  more,  as  her  full 
heart  acknowledged  to  itself  that  instant. 

There  was  no  impediment,  no  constraint  in 
love  after  that.  It  came  full  and  free,  drawn 
toward  its  object  by  the  magnetic  force  of 
loveliness. 


IV. 
GROWING    COLD. 

|HERE  was  an  ardor  about  the  young 
lover  that  showed  how  deeply  his 
heart  was  interested,  and  his  betrothed 
might  almost  be  said  to  live  only  in  his  pres 
ence.  He  flew  to  her  side  like  steel  to  the 
magnet  when  evening1  set  him  free  from  busi- 

o  o 

ness ;  and  she  awaited  his  certain  coming  with 
a  trembling  joy  that  pervaded  her  whole  being. 
The  days  were  long  that  kept  them  apart,  but 
lightning- footed  the  hours  of  evening.  How 
eagerly  they  looked  forward  to  that  blessed 
time  when  they  would  hear  the  words  spoken 
that  were  to  make  them  one !  And  the  time 
came  at  last,  though  with  slow-pacing  steps. 
Hand  in  hand  and  heart  beating  to  heart,  they 
entered  a  new  path  of  life,  carpeted  with  flowers, 
and  moved  onward  with  springing  feet  that  took 
their  measure  to  Love's  delicious  music. 

51 


52  GROWING   COLD. 

Swiftly  passed  the  first  seasons  of  their  new 
existence.  It  was  the  warm,  fragrant,  blossom 
ing  spring-time,  and  the  sunshine  filled  the  air 
with  vernal  warmth. 

"  Shall  we  ever  grow  cold  to  each  other?"  said 
the  young  husband,  leaning  toward  his  bride 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  peculiar  tenderness. 

This  was  occasioned  by  the  presence,  in  a 
small  company,  of  a  married  couple,  not  two 
years  wedded,  who  were  known  to  have  lost 
much  of  young  love's  ardor.  Their  indifference 
was  so  apparent  as  to  have  become  a  subject  of 
remark  with  their  friends  and  acquaintances. 

"Never,  Leonard,  never!"  was  almost  trem 
ulously  whispered  back.  "  That  is  impossible  ! 
Those  who  truly  love,  love  on  for  ever." 

"And  with  us  it  is  true,"  said  the  husband — 
"  true,  warm,  eternal  love  !" 

And  each  believed  that  it  was  so.  Let  us 
follow  them  a  little  way  on  their  life-journey. 

Leonard  Williams  was  a  young,  ambitious 
merchant,  who  was  trying,  unwisely,  to  do  a 
large  business  on  a  small  capital,  and  Leonard 
Williams  and  his  wife  were  a  young  couple  who 
thought  rather  more  of  making  an  appearance 
in  the  social  world  than  was  consistent  with 


GROWING   COLD.  53 

their  means  and  prospects.  He  had  too  large  a 
store,  and  too  many  goods  in  it,  and  they  lived 
in  too  large  a  house,  with  too  much  furniture 
in  it. 

A  tranquil  spirit  is  not  possible  under  such 
circumstances.  Overwearying  mental  labor  and 
absorbing  care  must  attend  them.  It  has  ever 
been  so — it  was  so  with  Leonard  Williams. 
Even  before  the  waning  of  the  first  year  his  fine 
brow  began  to  wear  a  shadow  and  his  eyes  to 
have  an  absent  expression.  There  was  a  failing 
warmth  in  his  manner  toward  his  bride  that 
chilled  her  heart,  at  times,  as  if  cold  airs  had 
blown  upon  it  suddenly.  She  was  too  young, 
too  inexperienced  and  too  ignorant  of  the  world 
to  comprehend  the  causes  that  were  at  work 
undermining  daily  the  foundations  of  their  hap 
piness.  She  only  felt  that  her  husband  was 
changing,  that  warmth  was  diminishing  and  the 
cloud  and  the  shadow  coming  in  the  place  of 
sunshine. 

Daily  and  weekly  and  monthly  the  change 
went  on,  he  getting  more  and  more  absorbed 
in  business,  and  she  finding  a  certain  poor  com 
pensation  for  heart-weariness  in  dress,  gay  com 
pany,  pleasure  and  fashionable  dissipation.  The 

5* 


54  GROWING   COLD. 

coldness  of  feeling,  as  well  as  of  exterior,  was 
mutual.  A  few  years  longer,  and  all  the  little 
tender  courtesies  that  marked  their  intercourse 
when  alone  failed  utterly.  Williams  would 
meet  his  wife  on  his  daily  return  from  business 
without  a  changing  countenance  or  tender  word, 
and  she  met  him  at  evening  and  parted  with 
him  on  each  succeeding  morning  with  an  air  of 
indifference  that  iced  over  the  surface  of  his 
feelings. 

And  so  the  years  went  on,  he  struggling 
and  striving  with  the  world  in  the  arena  of 

o 

business,  and  she  trying  to  find  in  the  unsub 
stantial,  gilded  exterior  of  things  that  pleasure 
she  failed  to  extract  from  the  real. 

How  like  mould  on  a  rich  garment,  or  rust 
upon  burnished  steel,  did  indifference  creep  over 
the  pleasant  surface  of  their  lives,  dimming  the 
mutual  attraction  !  Williams  had  energy  of  cha 
racter  and  a  mind  that  found  new  strength  in 
difficulty.  A  man  of  feebler  intellect,  less  hope 
and  less  suggestion,  starting  wrong,  as  he  did, 
would  have  been  driven  to  the  wall  in  a  few 
years.  But  Williams  discovered  his  error  in 
time  to  prepare  himself  for  the  impending  con 
sequences.  At  the  close  of  five  years  from  the 


GROWING   COLD.  55 

day  of  his  marriage  he  resolutely  looked  his 
affairs  in  the  face,  and  saw  that,  instead  of  being 
worth  many  thousands  of  dollars,  he  was  just 
upon  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  It  took  him  two 
years  to  get  safely  past  the  dangers  that  beset 
his  way.  One  cause  of  his  trouble  lay  in  the 
extravagance  of  his  style  of  living.  It  rather 
startled  him  to  find,  on  examining  his  private 
account,  that  twenty  thousand  dollars  had  been 
drawn  for  personal  expenses.  One-half  of  that 
sum,  added  to  his  capital,  would  have  made  all 
safe. 

"This  will  never  do!"  he  said  to  himself. 
"We  are  living  too  extravagantly.  There  must 
be  a  change." 

But  what  would  his  fashionable  wife  say  to 
this  ?  Would  she  be  willing  to  give  up  her  ele 
gant  home  and  retire  from  her  gay  position  ?  A 
feeling  of  discouragement  came  over  him  as 
these  questions  arose  in  his  mind. 

"  She  must  give  it  up,  she  must  retire !"  he 
said  to  himself,  with  some  warmth.  But  he  did 
not  wish  to  make  known  the  fact  of  his  deep 
embarrassment,  for  he  had  no  confidence  in  her 
power  to  endure  reverses.  If  she  sunk  down  in 
weak  distress,  the  burdens  he  had  to  bear  would 


5 6  GROWING   COLD. 

be  so  much  heavier,  and  they  were  quite  heavy 
enough  already.  After  viewing  the  matter  on 
all  sides  and  pondering  it  deeply,  Williams  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  only  economical  change 
likely  to  meet  his  wife's  approval  was  a  change 
from  their  own  home  to  a  fashionable  boarding- 
house.  A  close  calculation  satisfied  him  that 
to  do  so  would  lessen  their  annual  expenses 
about  one  thousand  dollars. 

"Anna,"  he  said  to  her,  one  evening,  break 
ing  through  his  cold,  abstracted  silence,  "  we 
are  living  at  too  costly  a  rate." 

Mrs.  Williams  turned  her  eyes  upon  his  face 
with  the  manner  of  one  who  had  heard  unpleas 
ant  words,  but  did  not  fully  comprehend  their 
-meaning. 

"  It  would  cost  us  less  to  board,  and  you 
would  be  freed  from  household  cares,''  he 
added. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  Leonard !"  was  her  prompt 
reply,  spoken  in  very  decided  tones.  "  I  cannot 
be  induced  to  give  up  my  elegant  home.  As  to 
household  cares,  I  am  not  troubled  by  them." 

"  It  is  a  question  of  economy,"  said  Williams. 

"If  that  is  all,  the  question  may  as  well 
sleep,"  replied  his  wife,  almost  indifferently, 


GROWING   COLD.  57 

"  for  it  costs  quite  as  much  to  live  in  a  first-class 
hotel  or  boarding-house  as  in  your  own  home." 

Williams  had  no  more  to  say.  A  deep  sigh 
fluttered  on  his  lips  ;  his  gaze  withdrew  itself 
from  the  countenance  of  his  wife  and  fell  to  the 
floor ;  his  head  sank  low  upon  his  bosom,  and 
thought  went  from  his  home  to  wander  amid  the 
seething  reefs  toward  which  his  vessel  was  driv 
ing,  hoping  to  find  some  narrow  passage  through 
which  he  might  steer  in  safety  to  a  smooth 
haven.  He  felt  cooler  toward  his  wife  after 
that,  and  she  was  conscious  of  the  coldness 
without  imagining  the  cause. 

No  change  in  the  style  or  cost  of  living  took 
place.  That  heavy  burden  he  had  to  carry  in 
addition  to  his  other  heavy  burdens,  and  it  re 
quired  all  of  his  strength. 

During  the  two  years  that  elapsed  before  his 
feet  were  on  firm  ground  again  he  appeared  to 
have  lost  all  interest  in  his  home,  his  wife  or  his 
children.  Mrs.  Williams  frequently  said,  lightly, 
speaking  to  friends  or  acquaintances,  that  she 
had  no  husband  now,  Mr.  Williams  having 
united  himself  to  business  in  a  second  marriage. 

o 

If  she  spoke  thus  in  his  presence,  he  would 
part  his  lips  in  a  forced  smile,  or  perhaps  say 


58  GROWING    COLD. 

jocosely  that  she  had  better  have  him  before 
the  courts  for  bigamy. 

Fashion,  show,  pleasure,  filled  up  all  the  time 
of  Mrs.  Williams  which  was  not  devoted  to 
maternal  duties  and  household  cares,  and 
business  was  the  Moloch  at  which  Mr.  Wil 
liams  sacrificed  all  social  and  home  affections. 

At  forty,  with  a  family  of  interesting  children 
springing  up  around  them,  they  were  but  cold 
ly  tolerant  of  each  other.  Never  having  seen, 
from  the  beginning  of  her  married  life,  any  good 
reason  for  economy  or  self-denial,  Mrs.  Williams 
had  failed  to  practice  these  virtues,  but  had  suf 
fered  the  opposite  vices  of  extravagance  and 
vain  self-indulgence  to  grow  rankly  as  offensive 
weeds,  tier  demands  upon  her  husband's  purse 
had,  therefore,  always  been  large,  and  they 
steadily  increased,  until  he  was  learning  to  hold 
the  strings  more  tightly,  and  to  question  and 
object  whenever  she  made  what  he  thought 
large  requisitions.  Thus  alienations  were  con 
stantly  engendered,  and,  at  times,  there  was 
strife  between  them.  Roughness  on  his  part 
and  petulance  on  hers  often  came  in  to  help 
the  work  of  estrangement. 

Twenty  years  of  a  false  life,  twenty  years  in 


GROWING   COLD.  59 

which  two  married  partners,  warm  and  loving 
at  the  first,  went  on  steadily  growing  cold  to 
ward  each  other  through  the  interposition  of 
sordid  and  worldly  things,  twenty  years  of  a 
home  intercourse  but  rarely  brightened  by  love's 
warm  sunshine  breaking  through  the  leaden 
clouds  of  care  or  folly, — what  a  sad  heart-history 
is  here !  And  is  it  not  the  history  of  thousands 
of  over-earnest  business-men  and  their  thought 
less,  unsympathizing,  fashionable  wives,  who 
seek  outside  of  hearts  and  homes  what  they  can 
never  find — that  tranquillity  of  soul  after  which 
all  aspire,  but  to  which  so  few  attain  ?  Alas 
that  it  is  so  ! 

Ah  that  we  could  write  from  henceforth  a 
better  record  of  Leonard  Williams  and  his  wife, 
that  we  could  tell  you  how,  growing  at  last  weary 
of  their  vain  existence,  they  turned  back,  athirst 
for  the  pure  waters  whose  sweetness  had  once 
refreshed  them,  finding  again  the  fountain  of 
eternal  youth !  Bat  it  was  not  so.  Habits  of 
thought  and  feeling  were  hardened  into  that 
second  nature  which  is  rarely  broken  up.  If, 
occasionally,  the  restless  heart  returned  along 
its  life -journey,  seeking  for  some  of  the  lost 
flowers  and  vanished  fragrance,  their  sweetness 


60  GROWING   COLD. 

was  perceived  only  as  the  dim  delight  of  a 
dream,  not  real  enough  to  inspire  an  effort  to 
seek  their  restoration.  And  so  they  moved  on 
in  the  coldness  of  twilight.  Age  found  him  a 
sordid,  irritable,  unhappy  man,  and  her  a 
nervous,  restless,  vain,  disappointed  woman. 

There  are  such,  reader,  all  around  you.  But 
keep  your  heart  warm.  Do  not  suffer  it  to 
grow  cold  toward  your  wife  or  husband.  Shut 
out  the  vain  things  of  the  world.  The  home- 
loves  are  warmest,  the  home-lights  brightest, 
and  they  will  grow  warmer  and  brighter  with 
years  if  you  feed  them  with  the  pure  oil  of  un 
selfish  affection. 


V. 


LITTLE    THINGS. 

1ATY  CLEVELAND  has  been  married 
only  a  single  month.  What  ails  the 
sweet  young  bride?  Her  eyes  look 
as  if  she  has  been  weeping.  That  curve  upon 
her  lips  is  not  the  arching  beauty  of  a  smile. 
Has  Edward  spoken  unkindly,  or  refused 
some  darling  request  ?  Has  he  left  her  to  be 
gone  a  week,  or  failed  to  return  at  the  ap 
pointed  time  after  a  few  days'  absence  ?  No, 
none  of  these.  Then  why  has  grief  visited  her 
gentle  bosom  ? — for  grieving  she  is  as  she  sits 
there  by  the  window  still  as  an  effigy. 

Do  not  smile  at  the  answer  we  give  you  : 
Edward  has  only  forgotten  the  expected  kiss 
at  parting,  and  gone  forth  to  his  daily  business, 
leaving  a  shadow  upon  the  spirit  of  his  young 
wife. 

6  61 


62  LITTLE    THINGS. 

You  smile  in  the  face  of  our  caution !  It  is 
such  a  little  thing!  And  you  say,  If  Katy 
Cleveland  is  going  to  make  a  bracket  to  hang 
troubles  upon  out  of  every  trifle  like  this,  she 
will  soon  have  her  whole  house  tapestried  with 
gloom. 

But  it  was  no  trifle  to  Katy.  The  young 
husband's  kiss  may  be  nothing  to  you — not 
even  held  to  the  value  of  a  pepper-corn — 
but  it  was  of  priceless  value  to  the  bride. 
She  had  even  come  to  look  forward  to  the 
daily  partings  and  meetings  with  a  pleasant 
anticipation  of  the  unfailing  kiss,  that  sweet 
token  of  love. 

But  the  token  had  been  withheld  at  last, 
and  on  the  closing  day  of  thejr  "  honeymoon." 
How  ominous !  Was  the  husband's  shadow 
already  thrown  across  the  threshold  of  their 
home? 

Acts  we  all  instinctively  regard  as  the  repre 
sentatives  of  thoughts  or  feelings.  The  kiss, 
with  Katy,  was  an  expression  of  love,  its  denial 
an  evidence  of  failing  warmth  on  the  part  of 
her  idolized  young  husband.  She  had  no  other 
interpretation.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that 
tears  dimmed  her  eyes;  no  wonder  that  a 


LITTLE    THINGS.  63 

veil  was  on  her  countenance.  It  was  the 
bride's  first  sorrow. 

Away  to  his  store  Edward  Cleveland  had 
gone,  wholly  unconscious  of  the  shadow  he  had 
left  behind  him.  He  did  not  even  remember 
that  in  parting  he  had  withheld  the  usual  kiss. 
Thoughts  of  business  had  intruded  themselves 
even  into  his  home,  and  claimed  to  share  the 
hours  sacred  to  domestic  tranquillity.  The 
merchant  had  risen  for  the  time  superior  to 
the  husband. 

When  Edward  met  his  wife  at  the  falling  of 
twilight  it  was  with  a  lover's  ardor.  Not  only 
one  kiss  was  bestowed,  but  many.  In  the  warm 
sunshine  of  his  presence  the  clouds  which  had 
veiled  her  spirit  for  hours  were  scattered  into 
nothingness. 

And  yet  the  memory  of  that  forgotten  kiss 
remained  as  an  unwelcome  guest.  On  the  next 
day,  and  the  next,  and  every  day  for  a  week,  the 
expected  kiss  was  given,  yet  ever  and  ever,  in 
her  hours  of  loneliness,  would  thought  go 
wandering  back  to  the  hour  when  her  husband 
left  her  without  this  token  of  his  love  and 
trouble  the  crystal  waters  of  her  soul. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  kiss  was  forgotten 


64  LITTLE    THINGS. 

again.  Nor  was  this  all :  Edward  had  shown  on 
one  occasion  a  spirit  of  impatience  and  spoken 
words  that  smote  upon  her  feelings  with  a  sharp 
pain.  He  had  not  meant  to  speak  unkindly, 
had  not  even  felt  so,  but  Katy  had  seemed  un 
usually  obtuse  in  some  matters  about  which 
Edward  sought  to  interest  her,  and  her  dull 
ness  provoked  him. 

"  You  are  a  little  simpleton !"  He  spoke 
half  in  sport,  half  in  earnest,  his  brows  slightly 
contracting.  "Why,  a  girl  fourteen  years  of 
age  could  see  through  it  all !" 

He  observed  that  the  color  on  her  cheeks 
deepened,  that  the  expression  of  her  eyes 
changed  and  that  she  turned  her  face  partly 
away  from  him,  but  he  never  imagined  the  de 
gree  of  pain  his  lightly-spoken  censure  had 
occasioned.  It  never  entered  into  his  heart  to 
conceive  of  the  darkness  of  the  veil  which  sud 
denly  came  between  her  spirit  and  the  sun 
light. 

And  so  Edward  felt  a  degree  of  contempt  for 
the  quality  of  her  understanding.  "A  little 
simpleton  !"  Ah !  if  the  words  were  half-play- 
fully  spoken,  they  had  a  meaning.  He  would 
not  have  said  them  if  he  had  not  discovered 


LITTLE    THINGS.  65 

a  feebleness  of  comprehension  below  what  he 
had  believed  to  exist.  Could  the  young  wife's 
thoughts  reach  to  any  other  conclusion  ?  No  ! 

These  were  little  things,  trifles,  compared 
with  the  great  troubles  of  life  that  come  to  all, 
and  that  were  in  store  for  Katy  Cleveland  as 
surely  as  for  the  rest.  But  they  need  not  have 
been,  and  would  not  have  been  if  Edward  had 
thought  as  much  out  of  himself  and  had  felt 
toward  Katy  as  tenderly  as  in  the  beginning. 
How  very  guarded  was  the  lover  in  all  his 
words  and  actions  !  He  never  forgot  the  parting 
kiss,  never  was  betrayed  into  a  lightly-spoken 
word  that  carried  with  it  a  sting  for  the  heart  of 
his  betrothed.  Oh  no  !  Had  he  deceived  Katy 
as  to  his  real  character  and  feelings  ?  We  can 
not  give  a  freely-spoken  yea  or  nay  to  this.  He 
had  not  meant  to  deceive  her.  And  yet  certain 
semblances  were  put  on,  and  the  lover  appeared 
to  have  more  perfections  than  really  existed  in 
the  man. 

"Ah,  well,  is  not  this  ever  so?"  Perhaps  it 
is.  With  certain  qualifications  to  the  sentiment, 
the  lover  is  always  a  dissembler.  If  not,  when 
he  assumes  the  husband  he  thinks  it  no  longer 
needful  to  give  voice  to  the  tender  sentiments 


66  LITTLE    THINGS. 

that  pervade  his  bosom.  It  is  enough  for  his 
wife  to  know  that  he  loves  her.  But  she  looks 
for  signs  and  tokens  as  of  old,  and  these  fail 
ing,  she  sits  often  athirst  by  the  dried-up  foun 
tains  from  which  once  gushed  out  refreshing 
waters. 

Almost  timidly  did  Katy  look  into  her  hus 
band's  face  when  he  returned  home.  Every 
hour  during  his  absence,  and  almost  every 
minute  of  every  hour,  had  she  thought  of  his 
depreciating  words,  and  she  felt  that  he  too 
must  be  thinking  of  them  all  the  time,  and  with 
something  of  disappointment,  if  not  alienation. 
But  she  was  in  error  here.  Edward  had  forgot 
ten  them  almost  as  soon  as  uttered,  and  nothing 
would  have  surprised  him  more  than  the  fact 
that  Katy  was  grieving  over  them.  He  met  her 
with  the  most  ardent  of  kisses,  the  sweetest  of 
smiles  and  the  tenderest  of  words,  and  she  was 
happy  again. 

But  the  evening  did  not  pass  wholly  free 
from  shadows.  Edward  was  showing  more  and 
more  of  the  true  external  of  his  character,  which 
had  many  aspects  not  yet  seen  by  his  wife.  He 
had  selfish  qualities,  as  all  men  have,  and  pecu 
liarities  that  to  some  would  show  themselves 


LITTLE    THINGS.  6/ 

as  offences.  One  fault  was  impatience.  This 
he  had  repressed,  though  often  under  strong 
temptation  to  let  his  feelings  leap  into  unseemly 
words.  He  was,  moreover,  a  man  disposed  to 
musing  in  silence.  His  business  fully  occupied 
his  thoughts  during  business-hours,  and  intruded 
itself  even  into  the  times  and  seasons  that 
should  have  been  sacred  to  domestic  peace. 
A  thorough  mercantile  education  had  given 
him  habits  of  order  and  punctuality.  He  was 
one  of  your  minute  men,  orderly,  punctual, 
a  little  sarcastic  and  impatient.  Ah,  Katy 
Cleveland !  you  have  a  trial  before  you  with 
this  husband  of  yours,  who  is  far  from  being 
the  perfect  man  your  girlish  imagination 
pictured.  And  yet  he  loves  you  as  the  apple 
of  his  eye,  and  would  on  no  account  give  you 
pain. 

"  There  it  is  again !"  Edward  had  gone  to 
the  bookcase  which  stood  in  their  sitting-room 
to  get  a  volume.  Vexation  was  apparent  in  his 
tones. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  inquired  Katy,  whose 
heart  began  to  beat  quicker. 

"  Who  is  it  that  disarranges  these  books  so 
shockingly  ?" 


68  LITTLE    THINGS. 

"  No  one,  dear.  Nobody  touches  them  but 
myself,"  replied  Katy. 

"  Then  it  is  time  you  had  learned  a  little  or 
der.  Just  look  here !  Do  you  see  this  volume 
of  Byron  upside  down,  and  out  of  its  place  in 
the  series  ?  And  here  are  two  books  laid  on 
the  tops  of  others,  instead  of  being  set  in  upon 
the  shelf,  and  here  is  another  with  the  front 
instead  of  the  back  turned  outward.  Such  dis 
order  annoys  me  terribly !  Of  all  things,  I  like 
to  see  order,  and  most  of  all  in  a  woman.  I 
hardly  expected  to  find  it  so  seriously  lacking 
in  my  wife !" 

Edward  was  annoyed,  and  did  not  very  care 
fully  modulate  his  tones.  They  struck  very 
harshly  and  with  an  angry  intonation  upon  the 
ears  of  Katy,  whose  heart  was  too  full  to  permit 
her  to  make  answer. 

"The  fact  is,"  continued  Edward,  "I  am  a 
little  disappointed  in  you." 

Ah !  This  was  too  bad !  The  blow  given, 
with  not  a  thought  of  its  force,  reached  instantly 
the  fountain  of  tears,  and  they  gushed  in  a  flood 
over  the  cheeks  of  Katy. 

Now,  what  had  Edward  said  to  occasion  such 
a  burst  of  grief?  He  was  not  conscious  of 


LITTLE    THINGS.  69 

cruel  words.  Only  lightly  had  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  her — lightly,  if  not  lovingly — and 
this  was  the  effect !  Must  he  never  speak  out 
when  he  saw  affairs  go  wrong?  Must  he  let 
all  things  fall  into  disorder,  and  yet  hold  his 
peace  ?  This  was  asking  too  much.  It  was  un 
reasonable. 

"  Katy" — he  spoke  rather  sternly — "I  thought 
you  a  reasonable  woman,  but  all  this  is  very 
unreasonable !" 

Now,  Katy,  for  all  her  sensitiveness,  had 
some  spirit,  and  there  was  sufficient  pride  in 
her  heart  to  cause  it,  even  in  pain,  to  lift  itself 
indignantly  against  the  one  who  thrust  at  her 
too  sharply,  even  if  that  one  were  her  husband. 
Her  tears  ceased  to  flow,  and  she  made 
answer: 

"And  I  thought  you  a  kind  and  reasonable 
man !" 

People  who  utter  harsh  words  usually  evince 
surprise,  often  indignation,  when  coin  of  like 
quality  is  returned  to  them  in  exchange.  Ed 
ward  Cleveland  was  for  a  moment  or  two  half 
confounded  at  this  unlooked-for  response.  He 
had  in  as  mild  a  way  as  possible  (?)  pointed 
out  a  disorderly  habit  that  was  exceedingly 


7O  LITTLE    THINGS. 

annoying,  and,  lo !  his  wife  assumed  an  air  of 
injured  innocence. 

"  And  pray,  madam,  in  what  respect  have  I 
shown  myself  lacking  in  kindness  and  reason  ?" 

Edward  turned  full  upon  his  wife  as  he  made 
this  interrogation  and  looked  with  knit  brows 
into  her  face. 

"In  making  the  position  of  two  or  three 
books  on  a  library  shelf  of  more  importance 
than  a  kind  and  gentle  demeanor  toward  your 
wife,  who  has  no  thought  or  wish  but  to  please 
you." 

Well  and  timely  spoken,  Katy  Cleveland ! 
There  are  always  two  sides  to  every  question, 
two  aspects  in  which  to  view  all  misunderstand 
ings  between  individuals,  husband  and  wife  not 
excepted.  Far  better  it  was  to  give  Edward 
this  revelation  of  your  thoughts  than  to  hide 
them  away  from  his  perceptions  and  leave  him 
under  the  wayward  influence  of  his  own  partial 
views.  It  was  a  statement  of  the  case  altogether 
unexpected,  yet^so  forcibly  put 'that  the  young 
husband  found  himself  shamed  by  an  irresistible 
conviction  of  wrong. 

"  Right,  Katy  dear !" 

It  took  a  few  moments  for  common  sense 


LITTLE    THINGS.  7 1 

and  kind  feelings  to  overcome  the  young  man's 
pride.  But  the  closing  sentence  of  his  wife  had 
dispelled  his  trifling  anger  and  left  but  small  re 
sistance.  He  spoke  cheerfully,  even  tenderly, 
shutting  thf  bookcase  door  at  the  same  mo 
ment,  and  drawing  an  arm  around  her  waist, 
pressed  her  closely  to  his  side. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  darling  !",he  said.  "  The 
position  of  a  book  is  a  small  matter  compared 
to  words  and  tones  that  make  the  heart  bound 
with  pleasure  or  flutter  in  pain.  These  little 
things  annoy  me  sometimes.  It  is  a  weakness. 
But  I  will  overcome  it  and  never  speak  to  you 
in  unkindness  again,  though  every  book  in  the 
house  be  scattered  on  the  floors." 

Katy  smiled  lovingly  into  his  face  through 
eyes  that  swam  in  tears. 

"  I  did  not  dream  that  such  things  annoyed 
you,  Edward,"  she  made  answer.  "Father 
never  seemed  to  notice  them,  though  mother 
has  scolded  a  great  deal  about  my  want  of 
order." 

"  Men  are  different  in  this  respect.  Any 
thing  in  disorder  is  sure  to  disturb  me.  I  have 
many  times  wished  it  were  otherwise.  But 
habits  are  strong/' 


72  LITTLE    THINGS. 

"  Bear  with  me  a  little  while,"  Katy  made 
answer,  "  and  I  will  endeavor  to  reform  my  bad 
habits.  Want  of  order  is,  I  believe,  one  of  my 
most  serious  failings,  but  it  shall  not  stand  be 
tween  me  and  my  good  husband  as  an  origina 
tor  of  strife.  Only,  Edward — " 

The  young  wife  paused.  A  slight  unstead 
iness  of  voice  betrayed  itself  on  the  last  word. 

"  Say  on,  love.     Only  what  ?" 

"  Have  patience  with  me.  New  lessons  are 
not  learned  in  a  day.  I  shall  often  forget — 
often  act  but  imperfectly." 

"  And  will  you  have  patience  with  me  also, 
Katy?" 

"  With  you  !     In  what  ?" 

"  Patience  with  my  impatience.  One  of  my 
besetting  sins  lies  here.  I  feel  quickly  and 
speak  quickly.  When  things  are  not  just  to 
my  mind  anger  stirs  in  my  heart." 

"  It  will  be  very  hard  for  me  to  bear  with 
your  displeasure,"  said  Katy,  growing  more 
serious.  "  If  you  speak  to  me  harshly  or  un 
kindly,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  back  the 
tears.  Will  you  have  patience  with  them, 
dear?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  kiss  them  away  or  smile  them 


LITTLE    THINGS.  73 

into  rainbows,"  replied  the  husband  with  lover- 
like  ardor. 

Here  was  a  good  beginning.  Katy's  reaction 
upon  Edward — a  reaction  that  surprised  her 
self  almost  as  much  as  it  surprised  him — had 
brought  him  back  to  reason.  She  had  held  up 
a  mirror  before  his  eyes  and  rather  startled  him 
with  his  own  distorted  image. 

But  the  world  was  not  made  in  a  day,  as  the 
old  adage  has  it,  and  habits  of  mind  are  too 
real  things  to  be  overcome  and  set  aside  on 
the  first  earnest  effort.  Katy's  want  of  order 
and  punctuality  and  Edward's  impatience  came 
into  rather  strong  conflict  ere  a  week  had  pass 
ed,  and  there  were  frowns  and  anger  on  one 
side  and  tears  upon  the  other.  After  a  brief 
estrangement,  good  sense  and  right  feeling 
brought  back  the  discordant  strings  of  their 
life  into  harmony  again. 

One  of  the  little  things  that  annoyed  Edward 
Cleveland  was  his  wife's  habit  of  lingering  in 
conversation  with  friends  when  she  knew  that 
he  was  waiting  for  her.  As  for  instance :  They 
were  at  a  social  party,  and  the  hour  for  return 
ing  home  had  come.  They  left  the  parlors  to 
gether,  he  going  to  the  gentlemen's  dressing- 


74  LITTLE    THINGS. 

room  for  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  she  to  one 
of  the  chambers  for  her  bonnet  and  furs.  Of 
course  he  was  ready  first.  It  did  not  take  him 
two  minutes  to  draw  on  his  coat  and  take  up 
his  hat.  At  the  end  of  the  fourth  minute  he 
began  to  think  it  time  for  Katy  to  make  her 
appearance.  But  Katy  and  an  old  friend  were 
in  earnest  conversation  about  some  matter  in 
which  both  had  an  interest,  and  she  had  not  at 
the  end  of  five  minutes  even  taken  her  bonnet 
from  the  bed.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  she 
said :  "  I  must  be  going.  Edward  is  waiting  for 
me." 

And  she  drew  on  her  bonnet  and  tied  the 
strings. 

"  How  becoming !"  said  the  friend,  referring 
to  the  bonnet.  "  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well 
in  anything." 

This  turned  their  talk  into  a  new  channel, 
and  five  minutes  more  were  consumed,  at  the 
end  of  which  period  Katy  said,  as  she  hastily 
took  up  her  furs: 

"I'm  forgetting  myself!     Edward  is  waiting." 

But  the  friend  started  a  new  subject,  and  five 
minutes  more  were  consumed.  When  Katy 
came  at  last,  with  slow  steps,  talking  still  to 


LITTLE    THINGS.  75 

her  friend,  and  her  husband  met  her  on  the 
stairs,  she  saw  that  his  face  was  clouded.  To 
him  the  time  he  had  been  walking  impatiently 
the  dressing-room  floor  seemed  full  an  hour; 
to  her  the  time  she  had  been  chatting  with  a 
friend  not  over  five  minutes. 

Edward  was  able  to  keep  back  from  his 
tongue  an  indignant  rebuke  only  long  enough 
to  get  fairly  out  of  the  house.  Then  he  said : 

"  Katy,  this  is  insufferable  !  And  if  you  treat 
me  so  again,  I'll  leave  you  to  get  home  as  best 
you  can." 

Upon  the  pleasant  state  of  feeling  left  by  the 
evening's  social  recreations  what  a  chilling  pall 
was  this  to  fling !  Katy  had  drawn  her  hand 
within  his  arm,  and  was  leaning  toward  him, 
but  the  pressure  of  her  hand  relaxed  instantly. 

"  More  than  half  an  hour  have  you  kept  me 
waiting  with  my  heavy  coat  on,  momently  ex 
pecting  you  to  appear." 

"  No,  Edward,  it  was  not  ten  minutes,"  re 
plied  Katy,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  Beg  your  pardon  !  It  was  three  times  ten 
minutes !  But  one  ten  would  have  been  more, 
than  twice  too  long.  I  never  saw  such  a 
thoughtless  creature !" 


?  LITTLE    THINGS. 

Katy  had  done  wrong,  and  she  saw  it,  but 
not  to  an  extent  that  warranted  such  an  angry 
state  of  feeling  in  her  husband.  The  time  she 
had  talked  with  her  friend  passed  so  quickly 
that  she  could  not  believe  more  than  ten  min 
utes  had  flown  away,  but  even  to  keep  her 
husband  waiting,  under  the  circumstances,  for 
ten  minutes,  she  felt  to  be  wrong,  and  had  he 
not  spoken  so  angrily,  she  would  have  acknow 
ledged  her  error  and  promised  never  again  to 
offend  in  a  similar  way.  As  it  was,  she  simply 
remained  silent,  while  he,  in  the  excitement  of 
his  unhappy  state,  added  other  words  of  rebuke 
no  more  carefully  chosen. 

It  was  very,  very  hard,  under  the  circum 
stances,  for  Katy,  suffering  as  she  was  from  the 
indignant  rebuke  of  her  husband,  to  think 
clearly  and  feel  rightly.  The  punishment  was, 
in  her  view,  altogether  beyond  the  offence.  He 
talked  on,  but  she  remained  silent. 

At  last  he  began  to  feel  that  he  was  saying 
too  much.  Katy  had  not  meant  to  offend  him. 
Hers  was  only  a  thoughtless  act,  which  his  im 
patience  had  magnified  into  a  crime,  and  which 
he  had  punished  as  if  it  had  been  a  crime. 
Had  his  young  wife  given  way  to  her  feelings, 


LITTLE    THINGS.  77 

she  would  have  wept  herself  to  sleep  that  night, 
refusing  to  be  comforted.  But  there  was  com 
mon  sense,  right  feeling  and  a  great  deal  of 
true  perception  in  that  thoughtless  little  brain 
of  hers.  She  knew  that  her  husband  loved  her, 
and  she  knew  that  she  had  done  wrong  in  tres 
passing  on  his  naturally  impatient  disposition. 
So,  as  soon  as  they  were  home,  and  she  could 
say  what  was  in  her  mind  in  a  manner  to  give 
it  the  right  effect,  she  spoke  to  him  these  words 
in  a  low  voice  that  slightly  trembled : 

"  Edward,  forgive  my  thoughtlessness.  I  will 
try  and  not  offend  you  again  in  this  particular. 
And  forgive,  also,  the  frankness  that  accuses  you 
of  a  far  greater  wrong  than  mine.  I  do  not  re 
member  anything  in  the  marriage  contract  to 
which  we  both  assented  that  gave  either  of  us 
the  right  to  be  angry  with  or  to  speak  harshly 
to  the  other.  We  pledged  mutual  love,  for 
bearance  and  kind  offices,  and  little  things,  no 
matter  how  annoying,  should  not  make  us 
forgetful  of  our  pledges.  I  was  wrong,  very 
wrong,  but  wrong  from  thoughtlessness.  Oh, 
Edward,  if  you  had  only  spoken  of  it  in  kind 
remonstrance,  I  would  have  seen  my  error  quite 
as  clearly  and  resolved  to  do  better  quite  as 

7* 


78  LITTLE    THINGS. 

earnestly,  and  loving  instead  of  painful  emo 
tions  would  have  trembled  in  my  heart.  It  is 
not  good  for  us  to  be  angry  with  one  another. 
The  trite  old  precept  of  bear  and  forbear  must 
never  be  forgotten  if  we  would  be  happy 
together.  I  am  not  perfect,  and  cannot  attain 
perfection  in  a  day.  Bear,  then,  with  my  in 
firmities  for  the  sake  of  the  love  in  my  heart — 
a  love  that  to  save  you,  dear  husband,  would 
smile  even  in  the  face  of  death!  Such  love 
should  cover  a  multitude  of  small  offences." 

Edward  Cleveland  caught  his  young  wife-  to 
his  heart,  and  while  he  held  her  there  tightly 
covered  her  lips  with  kisses. 

"  Oh,  these  little  things,  these  little  things !" 
he  said.  "  How  like  foxes  do  they  spoil  our 
tender  grapes!  But,  dear  Katy,  it  must  no 
longer  be.  Do  not  try  my  faulty  patience  over 
much,  and  I  will  hold  my  hand  hard  against 
the  weaknesses  of  character  which  have  already 
troubled  our  peace." 

"Speak  freely  and  frankly,  Edward,"  was 
the  reply,  "only  speak  kindly.  I  wj^l  never 
of  set  purpose  give  pain  or  annoyance.  The 
dearest  wish  of  my  heart  is  to  make  you  happy ; 
the  light  of  my  life  is  in  your  loving  smiles." 


LITTLE    THINGS.  79 

It  was  far  better  thus  to  understand  each 
other.  A  world  of  unhappiness  in  the  future 
Katy  saved  herself  and  husband.  A  true  word 
firmly  spoken  will  bring  a  man  to  reason 
quicker  than  a  gallon  of  tears.  Calm,  firm 
remonstrance  is  always  better  in  a  wife  than 
weeping  or  moody  silence.  The  first  a  husband 
can  understand ;  to  the  latter  he  has  no  key  of 
interpretation. 

From  that  time  Katy  was  more  considerate 
and  forgiving  of  her  impatient  husband;  she 
knew  his  heart  to  be  full  of  love  for  her,  and 
the  little  things  that  some  wives  would  have 
magnified  into  barriers  of  separation  she  swept 
aside  with  a  gentle  hand,  and  set  herself  to  the 
work  of  preventing  their  future  interposition. 
She  had  her  reward. 


VI. 

IN  DANGER. 

|NNA,"  said  Mr.  Lea  to  his  wife  on 
meeting  her  at  tea  one  evening,  "I 
find  that  a  previously  made  engage 
ment  will  prevent  my  going  to  the  opera  to 
morrow  night." 

The  countenance  of  Mrs.  Lea  fell.  Evidently 
her  disappointment  was  great. 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  You 
are  to  go,  however.  I've  taken  care  to  provide 
a  substitute,  and  one  altogether  suitable,  I  hope. 
Lewis  Steele  will  be  your  escort." 

Mrs.  Lea  did  not  evince  pleasure  at  this  com 
munication,  but  the  look  of  disappointment 
gradually  went  out  of  her  face. 

"  He'll  be  around  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  with 
us,"  added  the  husband. 

"  Will  he  ?"  There  was  a  covert  interest  in 
her  voice  not  perceived  by  Mr.  Lea. 

80 


IN  DANGER.  8 1 

"  Yes.     I  invited  him." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  remarked  Mrs.  Lea  after  a 
brief  silence.  "I  would  rather  bear  the  dis 
appointment  than  go  to  the  opera  in  company 
with  any  one  except  my  husband." 

"  But  Lewis,  you  know,  is  such  an  intimate 
friend." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered,  in  a  quiet,  ab 
sent  manner. 

Mr.  Lea  did  not  press  the  subject.  He  saw 
that  his  wife  would  accept  the  escort  he  had  en 
gaged,  and  with  grace  enough  to  put  him  at  his 
ease. 

Next  evening  came,  and  Mr.  Steele  called  as 
per  engagement.  Mrs.  Lea,  in  her  opera  cloak 
and  tasteful  head-dress,  looked  charming,  and 
there  were  few  handsomer  or  more  attractive 
men  than  her  companion  for  the  night.  In  the 
eyes  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Lea  had  never  looked 
more  beautiful  than  on  this  occasion,  and  he 
half  regretted  the  proud  satisfaction  he  would 
have  known  in  sitting  beside  her  in  the  public 
gaze,  amid  the  fashion  and  beauty  of  the  town. 
But  he  had  other  and  more  congenial  pleasures 
on  hand. 

Mrs.  Lea  was  in  danger.     Not  that  she  was  a 


82  IN  DANGER. 

vain,  weak  or  unprincipled  woman.  Not  that 
she  was  cold  toward  her  husband.  Her  danger 
lay  in  his  indifference  to  the  wants  of  her  nature, 
in  his  selfish  neglect,  in  his  inadequate  apprecia 
tion  of  her  character. 

Being  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Lea's — his 
groomsman,  in  fact,  at  the  wedding — Steele  had 
always  been  a  guest,  without  formality,  admitted 
and  confided  in  as  if  he  were  a  brother.  There 
was,  as  time  proved,  a  closer  assimilation  of 
tastes  between  him  and  Mrs.  Lea  than  between 
her  and  her  husband.  Steele  was  fond  of  music 
and  art,  and  so  was  Mrs.  Lea,  and  many  even 
ings  they  spent  together  singing  and  playing 
while  Mr.  Lea,  on  some  excuse,  absented  him 
self,  and  passed  the  hours  in  more  congenial 
companionship. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Lea  was  in  danger,  and  not  only  in 
danger,  but  gradually  awaking  to  the  painful 
consciousness  of  the  fact,  and  yet  more  painful 
consciousness  of  a  spell-like  thraldom  which  she 
had  not  strength  to  break.  And  Lewis  Steele, 
her  friend  and  her  husband's  friend,  was  in 
danger  also.  Yet  into  neither  mind  had  the 
tempter  cast  a  thought  of  evil.  The  hour  had 
not  come  for  that. 


IN  DANGER.  83 

Something  occurred  to  separate  the  friends 
with  whom  Lea  passed  the  evening  at  an  earlier 
hour  than  had  been  anticipated,  and  at  ten 
o'clock  he  found  himself  on  the  street,  alone, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Academy  of 
Music. 

Instead  of  going  home  to  await  his  wife's 
return,  Mr.  Lea  acted  from  the  moment's  im 
pulse,  and  buying  a  ticket,  went  in  to  see  and 
hear  the  concluding  part  of  the  opera.  His 
first  thought  on  entering  was  to  search  for  his 
wife,  and  if  a  vacant  seat  was  near,  to  join  her 
and  her  companion.  The  parquette  circle  was 
crowded.  For  a  little  while  he  stood  at  one  of 
the  doors,  looking  in  upon  the  gay  assemblage ; 
then  he  ascended  to  the  balcony,  where  he  found 
a  single  vacant  place.  Accepting  this,  he  turned 
his  eyes  to  that  portion  of  the  house  in  which  he 
had  selected  seats,  and  soon  saw  his  wife  and 
Mr.  Steele.  They  were  in  earnest  conversa 
tion,  and  apparently  indifferent  to  the  music 
or  action  of  the  opera. 

"  She's  a  splendid  woman ;  there's  no  mistake 
about  that."  It  was  the  remark  of  a  person  just 
behind  him. 

"  Did  you    say   her   name   was   Lea  ?"      So 


84  IN  DANGER. 

queried  the  individual  to  whom  this  remark 
was  made. 

"  Yes.     Her  husband  is  a  lawyer,  I  am  told." 

"  Who  is  that  with  her  ?" 

"  A  former  lover,  it  is  said." 

"Ah!" 

"  A  handsome  fellow,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  if  as  unprincipled  as  handsome — " 

Colson  came  forward  upon  the  stage  at  this 
moment,  and  the  sentence  was  not  completed. 
Lea  neither  saw  nor  heard  her,  though  she  sang 
one  of  her  most  effective  parts.  His  eyes  were 
on  his  wife  and  her  companion,  who,  intermit 
ting  their  pleasant  talk,  turned  their  attention 
to  the  prima  donna,  yet  every  now  and  then 
exchanging  words  and  glances. 

"Where  is  her  husband?"  The  conversation 
began  again. 

"Mrs.  Lea's  husband?" 

"Yes." 

"  Heaven  knows  !  Asleep  somewhere — be 
sotted,  or  blind.  If  he  had  half  an  eye,  he 
would  see  what  is  becoming  patent  to  all.  Now 
look  at  them  !  Doesn't  that  speak  for  itself? 
See  how  lovingly  they  lean  toward  each  other, 
and  how  she  hangs  upon  his  sentences.  A  hun- 


IN  DANGER.  85 

dred  eyes  are  on  them,  and  yet  they  are  uncon 
scious  of  the  notice  their  demeanor  toward  each 
other  is  attracting.  There  is  only  one  saving 
clause." 

"What?" 

"  The  young  man  is  spoken  of  as  the  soul  of 
honor." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"Steele." 

"  I  never  heard  of  him.  But  soul  of  honor 
or  soul  of  dishonor,  he  is  not  in  his  right  place 
to-night.  In  fact,  the  flaunting  of  such  an  inti 
macy  with  a  married  woman  in  the  face  of  a 
public  assemblage  is  dishonorable,  and  the  man 
who  so  little  regards  the  decencies  of  common 
life  will  not  hesitate  at  anything  beyond." 

"  If  he  had  a  true  respect  for  her,"  remarked 
the  other,  "  he  would  so  conduct  himself  as  not 
to  give  cause  for  a  breath  of  detraction.  A 
handsome  married  woman  cannot  often  appear 
in  public  places  unaccompanied  by  her  husband 
without  eliciting  observation  and  remark.  There 
must  be  no  lover-like  unconsciousness  of  out 
ward  things  in  her  and  her  male  attendant  such 

o 

as  we  see  in  the  case  before  us.  This  cannot 
possibly  exist  without  tainting  the  good  name." 


86  IN  DANGER. 

A  brief  silence  followed.  Mr.  Lea's  heart 
was  leaping  in  strong  throbs.  He  was  startled, 
amazed,  bewildered,  frightened,  in  face  of  a  new 
and  unsuspected  danger.  Had  he  been  really 
blind  that  he  now  saw  such  a  gulf  at  his  feet  ? 
Had  the  earth  just  yawned,  or  had  the  chasm 
been  there  all  the  while  and  his  unconscious  feet 
upon  the  brink  ? 

"  Her  face  is  pure  as  well  as  beautiful."  The 
conversation  went  on  again. 

"  Yes.  I  have  always  admired  it  for  that 
very  purity.  I  believe  her  to  be  innocent  now. 
But  even  innocence  should  be  guarded.  No 
heart  is  free  from  guile.  The  best  may  be 
tempted.  And  of  all  dangers,  I  think  that  most 
perilous  in  which  a  loving,  sympathetic  woman, 
neglected  by  a  cold,  indifferent  husband,  is 
thrown  into  intimate  companionship  with  an 
agreeable  man  who  fully  appreciates  her  and 
responds  to  her  feelings  and  sentiments.  If  he 
stand  in  the  relation  of  a  former  lover,  so  much 
the  worse." 

"  And  that,  as  I  understand  it,  is  the  relation 
held  to  Mrs.  Lea  by  the  gentleman  now  in  her 
company  ?" 

"  So  people  say." 


IN  DANGER.  8/ 

"Are  they  much  talked  about?" 

"  Yes.     I've  heard  this  intimacy  referred  to 
of  late  several  times." 

A  grand  chorus  filled  the  house  with  its  mul 
titudinous  harmonies,  silencing  all  conversation 
and  attracting  every  ear.  As  it  died  away  the 
curtain  fell.  One  act  more,  and  the  performance 
would  be  over.  In  the  interval  a  free  and  easy 
movement  prevailed  through  the  house.  Some 
stood  up  and  many  passed  to  the  lobbies, 
among  whom  were  the  two  men  whose  conver 
sation  had  so  startled  Mr.  Lea.  He  remained, 
with  scarcely  a  movement  of  the  body,  his  eyes 
riveted  upon  his  wife  and  her  companion,  who 
were  so  interested  in  each  other  as  to  be  almost 
oblivious  of  things  around  them.  Presently 
they  arose  and  went  out  into  the  lobby.  For  a 
moment  or  two  there  was  a  debate  in  Lea's 
mind.  Then  he  got  up  and  went  into  the  lobby 
also.  It  was  filled  with  ladies  and  gentlemen," 
some  promenading  and  some  passing  to  the 
stairways.  Among  these  he  moved,  searching 
for  his  wife,  but  after  sweeping  around  through 
the  whole  area  he  failed  to  meet  her.  Thence 
he  passed  to- the  foyer,  which  was  more  crowded 
than  the  lobby.  Entering  at  the  north  door,  he 


88  IN  DANGER. 

moved  toward  the  south,  fronting  a  large  mirror 
in  which  the  forms  and  faces  of  all  advancing  in 
that  direction  were  reflected.  He  had  walked 
for  half  the  distance  of  this  splendid  room, 
when,  for  a  single  instant,  he  caught  the  image 
of  his  wife's  face  in  the  mirror.  It  was  partly 
turned  from  her  companion,  who  was  leaning 
toward  her,  evidently  in  the  pause  of  some 
utterance,  and  awaiting  a  reply.  He  saw  both 
their  faces  at  the  same  moment,  and  was 
strongly  impressed  by  each  expression.  There 
was  something  evil  and  alluring  in  the  face  of 
his  friend — a  look  wholly  new  to  that  open, 
frank,  honorable  countenance.  In  the  face  of 
his  wife  he  read  surprise,  repulsion  and  pain. 
All  this,  as  we  have  said,  was  the  revelation  of  a 
moment.  A  group  of  promenaders  came  be 
tween,  and  hid  their  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

Pressing  forward  to  catch  another  view^  Mr. 
Lea  was  almost  upon  them  before  their  forms 
were  again  visible.  His  wife  had  withdrawn  her 
hand  from  her  companion's  arm,  on  whose  face 
he  saw  blank  regret.  The  rich  color,  which  had 
increased  so  highly  the  beauty  of  her  counte 
nance,  had  faded  out,  a  strange  pallor  succeeding. 
Her  eyes  were  c^t  down,  but  lifting  them, 


IN  DANGER.  89 

she  met  the  gaze  of  her  husband  reflected  from 
the  glass  almost  directly  in  front  of  which  she 
was  now  standing.  Lea  saw  a  flashing  change 
in  her  face  as  their  eyes  met  It  was  not  a 
guilty  change,  but  full  of  a  glad  surprise. 
Turning  instantly,  she  caught  his  arm  with  a 
clinging  grasp — he  felt  her  hand  thrill  to  his 
heart — and  said : 

"  Oh,  Henry  !     I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  here." 

Mr.  Steele  turned  more  slowly,  schooling 
himself  by  a  hasty  discipline  in  the  brief  lapse 
of  time  which  would  intervene  ere  he  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  the  friend  against  whom,  in  a 
moment  of  passion  and  weakness,  he  had  medi 
tated  the  deepest  of  all  wrongs.  Both  men  saw, 
in  that  interval,  the  duty  of  concealment,  and 
both  exercised  a  rigid  self-control.  There  was 
polite  recognition,  an  easy  reciprocation  of  com 
monplaces,  such  as  pass  between  friends  on 
meeting,  and  then  a  formal  transfer  of  the  lady 
to  her  husband  in  courteous  phrases. 

"Will  you  see  the  last  act?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Lea  as  the  orchestra  began  to  play. 

"  As  you  like,"  was  answered. 

"  Just  as  you  like,  Henry.  I  am  ready  to  go 
or  stay." 

8  * 


QO  IN  DANGER. 

"We  will  remain,"  said  Mr.  Lea.  And  they 
passed  from  the  foyer  into  the  balcony,  and  took 
the  seats  vacated  £>y  Mrs.  Lea  and  Mr.  Steele 
ten  minutes  before.  The  last-named  individual 
had  signified  his  intention  of  retiring  from  the 
house.  Ere  the  curtain  arose,  Mr.  Lea  had  de 
termined  the  exact  place  in  which  he  sat  a  short 
time  before,  and  marked  the  two  gentlemen  sit 
ting  directly  behind.  He  was  sure  of  their 
identity  by  the  fact  that  one  had  an  opera 
glass  pointed  toward  them,  and  that  they  were 
evidently  surprised  at  something  and  curiously 
interrogating  each  other.  The  simple  work 
which  Mr.  Lea  had  taken  in  hand  for  the  con 
cluding  half  hour  of  the  performance  was  to 
present  himself  and  his  wife  to  the  eyes  of  all 
who  had  misjudged  her  during  the  first  part  of 
the  evening,  and  to  let  it  appear  that  she  was 
gratified  with  her  change  of  companionship,  and 
that  between  her  and  her  husband  there  existed 
a  mutual  confidence  and  affection.  He  talked 
with  her  of  the  acting  and  the  music,  admiring 
fine  passages  and  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the 
performance,  through  her  appreciation,  in  a 
higher  degree  than  he  had  ever  entered  before. 
So  skillfully  did  he  conceal  from  his  wife  all 


IN  DANGER.  9! 

signs  of  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  in  the  bal 
cony  and  foyer  that  she  felt  an  assurance  that 
he  was  wholly  ignorant  in  regard  to  any  danger 
having  been  in  her  way.  But  he  understood 
very  well  why  she  held  so  clingingly  to  his  arm 
as  they  walked  homeward  that  night,  and  why 
she  responded  with  such  a  penetrating  tender 
ness  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Lea  was  never  again  in  danger.  From 
that  period  of  awakening  her  husband  grew 
more  and  more  into  a  just  appreciation  of  her 
character  and  its  needs,  of  her  purity,  taste,  in 
telligence  and  high  womanly  qualities,  and  of 
his  duties  as  her  husband.  In  public  places  he 
was  always  her  attendant,  thus  protecting  her 
good  name  and  elevating  her  in  the  eyes  of 
all. 

Alas !  how  many,  standing  just  on  the  verge 
of  danger,  as  Mrs.  Lea  stood — pressed  to  the  i 
verge  by  a  husband's  blind  indifference — have 
suffered  their  feet  to  pass  over !  For  the  sake 
of  those  who  are  on  the  right  side,  yet  walking 
in  doubtful  ways  and  amid  allurements,  we 
strike  a  note  of  warning,  and  so  strike  it  that 
the  indifferent,  unsympathizing  husband  as  well 
as  the  unguarded  wife  may  hear. 


VII. 
TEN  YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

|EN  years  since  the  wedding-day.  Mrs. 
Howland  was  alone.  She  had  left 
her  husband  in  the  little  room  where 
they  usually  sat  together  through  the  evenings 
while  she  put  the  children  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Howland  did  not  feel  inclined  to  return 
to  the  family  sitting-room,  where  she  had  left 
her  husband,  but  remained  in  the  chamber  with 
her  sleeping  little  ones  in  a  musing,  brooding, 
unhappy  .state  of  mind.  Something  of  coldness 
and  alienation  had  been  growing  up  between 
her  and  her  husband  for  a  long  time  past.  The 
old  tenderness  of  manner  which  had  been  so 
sweet  was  all  gone.  He  was  kind,  thoughtful 
in  regard  to  her  comfort,  honorable  and  true, 
but  getting  more  formal  and  less  affectionate  in 
manner  every  day.  His  wife,  who  had  loved 
him  very  tenderly  and  still  loved  him,  had  failed 

92 


TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  93 

to  give  in  her  life  the  adequate  response  to  his — 
had,  in  the  fret  and  fever  of  a  disciplinary  ex 
istence,  suffered  herself  to  walk  amid  disturbing 
and  discordant  elements  instead  of  taking  her 
place  serenely  by  his  side.  And  so  inharmo 
nious  things  had  been  permitted  to  jar  where 
all  might  have  been  peace. 

It  was  pressing  upon  the  mind  of  Mrs.  How- 
land  that  her  husband  had  ceased  to  love  her, 
and  this  conviction  was  taking  all  the  sweetness 
from  her  life.  It  did  not  once  occur  to  her  that 
she  was  herself  growing  unlovely,  that  she 
had  laid  aside  nearly  all  the  external  things  by 
which,  when  a  maiden,  she  had  sought  to  win 
him — the  sunny  countenance,  the  alluring 
voice  and  manner,  the  scrupulous  attire,  the 
deference  to  his  tastes  and  opinions,  the  guard 
upon  her  temper,  the  womanly  elevation  of  cha 
racter  that  made  her  seem  as  one  who  ruled  in 
the  kingdom  of  her  own  soul.  This  was  the 
being  he  had  loved,  this  the  woman  he  had 
taken  to  walk  with  him  through  life.  Alas  for 
the  fading  ideal !  He  had  found,  instead,  one 
who  made  scarcely  an  effort  at  self-government, 
whose  feelings  and  impulses  were  her  springs 
of  action.  Deeply,  passionately,  she  loved  him, 


94  TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

but  only  a  wise,  self-abnegating  love  blesses 
both  itself  and  the  object  of  its  devotion.  With 
out  some  change  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Rowland  it 
was  impossible  for  them  to  grow  together  as  one. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  after  her  children  were 
asleep  the  mother  sat  in  her  wretched  mood, 
apart  from  her  husband  and  feeling  no  inclina 
tion  to  join  him.  "All  love  has  died,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  nothing  now."  And  as  she  said  this  her 
heart  shivered  with  an  instinctive  realization  of 
what  her  words  involved.  Then  fear  for  the 
loss  of  a  thing  so  precious  as  a  husband's  love 
seized  upon  her  soul  and  inspired  a  new  pur 
pose.  A  love  worth  winning  was  surely  worth 
an  effort  to  retain.  And  was  not  the  way  to 
win  the  way  to  keep  ?  A  new  light  broke  into 
Mrs.  Rowland's  mind.  She  began  to  see  things 
in  herself  that  were  very  far  from  being  in  har 
mony  with  her  life  when  a  maiden — things  that 
would  certainly  have  repelled  a  lover,  and  were 
they  bonds  for  a  husband  ? 

These  thoughts  startled  the  awakening  wife. 
Then  old  memories  were  revived,  bringing  back 
old  states.  Pictures  warm  with  the  hues  of 
love  came  out  of  the  dim  past. 

"Is  the  cup  broken  and  the  wine  spilled?" 


TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  $$ 

she  asked  of  herself.  "  God  forbid !"  came 
from  her  lips  in  audible  utterance.  Then  she 
left  the  chamber  where  her  children  slept,  and 
with  silent  feet  went  slowly  toward  the  apart 
ment  in  which  she  had  left  her  husband  alone. 
On  the  way  she  paused,  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
then  returned.  The  gas  was  burning  low.  She 
threw  up  the  light  and  caught  a  reflection  of 
herself  in  a  toilette  glass.  One  glance  sufficed. 
That  was  not  the  style  in  which  she  had  ap 
peared  before  her  lover.  Taking  down  her 
hair,  she  applied  comb  and  brush  rapidly  for 
some  minutes,  and  then  arranged  the  glossy 
masses  with  taste  and  skill.  Next  the  soiled 
and  tumbled  wrapper  was  removed  and  her 
person  attired  in  a  neatly-fitting  dress,  around 
the  neck  of  which  was  laid  a  snowy  linen  collar 
fastened  by  a  small  coral  pin,  her  husband's  gift 
of  other  days.  Already  her  cheeks  were  in  a 
glow  and  her  eyes  filled  with  light.  One  long 
glance— at  herself  in  the  mirror  revealed  a  won 
derful  transformation.  How  the  old  memories 
were  crowding  in  upon  her !  How  soft  her 
heart  was  growing!  How  full  of  tenderness 
was  every  thought  of  her  husband!  Her  lips 
were  athirst  for  kisses  ! 


96  TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

And  now  Mrs.  Howland  left  her  chamber 
again.  Her  slippered  feet  gave  no  sound  as 
they  moved  over  the  carpet,  and  she  came  to 
the  open  door  of  the  sitting-room  without  be 
traying  a  sign  of  her  approach.  There  she 
stood  still.  Mr.  Howland  was  not  at  the  table 
reading,  as  she  had  left  him,  but  at  his  secretary, 
which  was  open.  He  was  reclining  his  head  on 
one  hand  and  gazing  down  upon  something 
held  in  the  other,  and  seemed  wholly  absorbed. 
For  more  than  a  minute  he  remained  in  this 
fixed  attitude,  his  wife  as  still  as  himself.  Then 
a  long  sigh  trembled  on  the  air,  and  then  lift 
ing  the  object  on  which  his  gaze  was  directed, 
Mr.  Howland  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  kissing  it  al 
most  passionately  three  or  four  times.  A  wild 
throb  leaped  along  Mrs.  Howland's  veins.  Then 
her  heart  grew  still  as  in  the  presence  of  some 
unknown  but  stupendous  evil.  Something 
impelled  her  to  spring  forward  and  read  this 
mystery,  and  something  as  strongly  held  her 
back.  As  she  stood,  pale  now  and  in  a  tremor, 
the  object  was  kissed  again,  and  then  returned 
to  a  drawer  in  the  secretary  from  which  it  had 
been  taken.  In  this  act  for  an  instant  the 
miniature  of  a  lady  met  the  gaze  of  Mrs.  How- 


"A    WILD    THROB    LEAPED    ALONG    MRS 


HOWLAND'S 


Page  96. 


TEN   YEARS  AFTER   MARRIAGE.  9/ 

land!  Locking  the  drawer,  her  husband  placed 
the  key  in  his  pocket, 'and  then  resting  both 
arms  on  the  writing  leaf  of  the  secretary,  buried 
his  face  in  them  and  sat  motionless. 

Turning  away  as  noiselessly  as  she  had  ap 
proached,  Mrs.  Rowland  fled  back  to  her  cham 
ber  in  wild  affright,  and  sat  down  panting  and 
in  bewilderment.  As  soon  as  thought  began  to 
move  in  a  determinate  way,  the  first  result  was 
a  flood  of  indignation,  a  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
and  it  was  only  by  an  effort  that  the  outraged 
wife  could  hold  herself  back  from  confronting 
her  husband  and  demanding  to  see  the  min- 
'  iature.  A  calmer  but  not  less  painful  state 
succeeded,  in  which  conscience  whispered  of 
indifference  and  neglect.  Had  she  turned, 
habitually,  her  most  attractive  or  her  least 
attractive  side  to  her  husband  ?  Had  she  kept 
herself  lovely  in  his  eyes — lovely  in  temper  and 
lovely  in  person?  Her  heart  sunk;  it  grew 
darker  and  darker  around  her;  life  seemed 
crushing  out. 

"Who  is  it?"    This  question  marked  a  change 

in    the    current   of    Mrs.    Howland's    thoughts. 

Rapidly  she  passed  in  review  one  lady  friend 

.  after   another,   but  without   an    incident  to   fix 

9  G 


98  TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

suspicion.  Then  times  and  seasons  in  which 
her  husband  was  absent  from  home  were  dwelt 
upon.  Once  a  week  regularly  he  went  out  in 
the  evening,  occasionally  twice.  The  regular 
absence  was  for  the  purpose  of  attending  a 
literary  society — at  least  so  he  had  informed 
his  wife.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  doubt  of  his 
truth  crept  in,  and  this  doubt  was  as  the  sweep 
ing  away  of  all  the  sure  foundations  on  which 
her  soul  had  rested. 

For  a  long  time  Mr.  Rowland  remained  sitting 
at  his  secretary  with  his  face  buried  in  his  arms. 
At  length,  rising  with  a  slow,  weary  motion,  as 
of  one  exhausted  by  bodily  or  mental  exertion, 
he  drew  out  his  watch. 

"  Half-past  nine  !"  was  ejaculated  in  surprise. 
And  then  he  looked  through  the  door  over  to 
ward  the  chamber  whither  his  wife  had  gone 
with  the  children,  and  stood  listening  for  some 
sound.  All  was  silent.  For  a  short  time  he 
moved  in  an  uneasy,  irresolute  way  about  the 

41 

room,  and  sitting  down,  tried  to  find  interest 
in  the  pages  of  a  book.  But  in  a  little  while 
the  volume  closed  in  his  hands.  Thought  was 
too  busy  in  another  direction  to  dwell  even 
with  a  favorite  author. 


TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  99 

"Ten  o'clock!"  The  bell  was  ringing  its 
clear  notes  from  a  neighboring  steeple.  Mr. 
Rowland  started  up,  and  turning  out  the  light, 
went  over  to  the  sleeping-room.  His  wife  was 
in  bed.  He  spoke  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
answer. 

"  Are  you  asleep  ?"  No  motion  nor  response 
of  any  kind.  She  lay  with  her  face  nearly 
hidden  under  the  bedclothes.  He  looked 
at  her  in  a  strange,  earnest  manner  for  some 
moments,  and  then,  moving  about  noiselessly, 
prepared  for  rest.  The  day  had  been  one  of 
much  activity,  and  Mr.  Howland  was  weary 
enough  for  sleep.  Soon  after  his  head  touched 
the  pillow  he  was  in  the  land  of  dreams.  His 
deep  breathing  had  scarcely  given  evidence  of 
the  fact  ere  a  light  movement  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Howland  showed  her  to  be  awake.  Pres 
ently  she  drew  the  clothes  from  her  face  and 
raised  herself  cautiously.  The  heavy  breathing 
of  her  husband  was  not  interrupted.  She  sat 
up  in  bed:  he  still  slept  on;  she  glided  from 
beneath  the  covering,  and  groping  in  the  dark 
ness,  found  her  husband's  vest,  from  which  she 
took  a  key. 

"  Mother !"     The  slight  noise  made  in  open- 


IOO  TEN   YEARS  AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

ing  the  chamber  door  had  disturbed  one  of  the 
children.  Mrs.  Rowland  stood  still,  holding 
her  breath.  The  call  was  not  repeated,  and  she 
went  out,  groping  her  way  along  the  passage 
with  a  hand  on  the  wall.  Entering  the  room 
she  sought,  she  closed  the  door  behind  her  and 
drew  the  bolt,  fastening  herself  in.  Now  all  her 
motions  became  hurried  and  nervous.  After 
lighting  the  gas  she  went  to  her  husband's  sec 
retary,  and  with  the  key  in  her  possession  un 
locked  one  of  the  private  drawers.  Her ^  hand 
shook  so  that  the  key  rattled  on  the  scutcheon 
before  a  way  was  found  into  the  wards.  The 
first  object  that  met  her  view  as  the  drawer 
came  open  was  a  morocco  miniature  case,  which 
she  seized  upon  with  a  clutch  as  eager  as  that 
of  a  bird  of  prey,  and  bearing  it  to  the  gaslight, 
unloosed  the  clasp  and  exposed  the  face  of  her 
rival. 

It  was  a  young  and  lovely  face,  and  the  eyes 
looked  up  into  hers  with  a  tender  and  sweet 
expression.  Away  from  the  pure  forehead  the 
hair  of  golden  auburn  fell  smoothly  back,  and 
lay  in  curls  upon  her  neck,  that  was  whiter 
and  purer  than  alabaster.  The  lips  were  full, 
soft,  and  arching  as  if  for  a  flight  of  arrows. 


TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  IOI 


Love's  witchery  was  in  tile  pictured  coirnte:- 
nance. 

Still,  very  still,  did  the  wife  sit  and  gaze  down 
upon  her  rival's  face — that  face  on  which 
scarcely  an  hour  before  she  had  seen  her  hus 
band's  kisses  laid.  Still,  very  still,  she  sat,  the 
tears  creeping  out  of  her  eyes,  falling  slowly 
over  her  cheeks  and  dropping  upon  the  min 
iature.  Was  she  jealous  of  that  rival  ?  No  ! 
Her  heart  was  too  glad  for  jealousy,  too  full  of 
joy,  too  wild  with  a  new-born  happiness.  The 
bride  of  ten  years  ago  was  the  rival  of  to-day, 
and  the  heart  of  her  husband  was  true  to  his 
marriage  vows  !  It  was  no  fault  of  his  that  he 
could  not 'love  what  had  become  unlovely.  Not 
unlovely  in  the  poorer  signification  of  that  word, 
as  indicating  changes  wrought  by  the  wearing 
hand  of  time,  but  unlovely  through  indulgence 
in  impatience  and  fretfulness,  and  in  the  neglect 
of  self-discipline — unlovely  also  from  careless 
ness  of  attire  and  personal  neatness. 

With  the  image  of  herself  as  she  was  ten 
years  before,  and  with  the  image  of  her  husband 
fondly,  passionately  kissing  that  image,  dwelling 
in  her  imagination,  Mrs.  Rowland  went  back 
to  her  bed.  She  had  suddenly  awakened  as 

9* 


*Q2  ,       ,     -2"^  ^YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

from  a  dream,  a  long",  weary,  troubled,  exhaust 
ing  dream,  and  the  language  of  her  heart  was, 
"  Thank  God  that  I  am  awake  !" 

As  they  sat  at  breakfast  on  the  next  morning, 
Mrs.  Rowland  noticed  a  change  in  the  expres 
sion  of  her  husband's  face  as  he  looked  at  her 
across  the  table,  letting  his  eyes  dwell  upon  her 
with  unusual  interest.  It  was  a  pleased,  almost 
admiring  expression.  She  was  in  no  doubt  as 
to  the  cause,  for  she  had  attired  herself  with 
scrupulous  care  in  a  clean,  bright  morning- 
wrapper,  and  wore  a  cap  fastened  at  one  side 
with  a  ruby  hairpin  and  ornamented  with  two 
or  three  small  pink  bows  and  a  sprig  of  flowers. 
A  plain  linen  collar  pinned  with  a  cameo  was 
around  her  neck.  And,  better  than  all,  she  had 
banished  every  sign  of  discontent  and  fretful- 
ness  from  her  face. 

"  How  sweet  mother  looks  this  morning !" 
said  Mr.  Rowland,  glancing  at  one  of  the  chil 
dren  who  sat  near  her  and  smiling  one  of  his 
old,  bright  smiles. 

"  Don't  she !"  answered  the  little  one,  lifting 
her  rosy  mouth  to  mamma  for  a  kiss. 

"  Me  kiss  too,  mamma  so  beautiful !"  and 
little  Allie  scrambled  down  from  her  chair  in 


TEN   YEARS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  1 03 

new-born  admiration  of  her  mother,  and  put  up 
her  mouth  also. 

"And  me  too,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Rowland, 
passing  around  the  table  and  laying  his  lips 
softly  and  lingeringly  upon  the  lips  of  his  wife. 
He  saw,  as  he  looked  across  the  table  on  re 
suming  his  seat,  that  her  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears.  He  knew  they  were  tears  of  pleasure, 
but  did  not  imagine  how  deeply  her  heart  was 
stirred  nor  how  full  of  precious  memories  and 
golden  hopes  the  moment  was  crowded. 

Ten  years  after  marriage.  Love's  lamp  was 
burning  low,  the  oil  nearly  exhausted,  the  wife 
grown  so  unattractive  that  the  husband's  heart 
was  turning  back  in  worship  of  the  bride.  But 
the  lamp  has  blazed  up  again :  there  is  a  supply 
of  oil.  A  beauty  beyond  any  bridal  beauty  in 
vests  the  wife,  and  it  shall  grow  more  womanly, 
more  luxuriant,  more  enchanting,  as  the  days 
succeed  each  other  and  years  progress,  until  the 
soul  puts  on  her  garments  of  eternal  youth. 


VIII. 


A   HINT  TO  HUSBANDS. 

|HY  didn't  you  make  them  all  crust — 
solid  to  the  centre  ?"  said  Mr.  Rodney, 
in  a  fault-finding  tone,  as  he  let  the 
biscuit  he  had  taken  drop  heavily  on  his  plate. 
"You  might  shoot  a  man  with  a  thing  like 
that !" 

Mrs.  Rodney's  face  colored.  She  was  hurt  at 
her  husband's  tone  and  manner. 

"  I  meant  to  have  had  them  right,  James,"  she 
answered,  with  just  a  sign  of  choking  in  her 
voice.  "  But — " 

Not  permitting  his  wife  to  finish  the  sentence, 
Mr.  Rodney  broke  in  upon  her  captiously:  "Oh 
yes,  of  course  but  did  all  the  harm.  No  one 
except  but  is  responsible  for  anything  that  goes 
wrong  in  this  house.  I  wish  you'd  turn  him  out  : 
I'm  tired  of  his  presence.  But  spoils  the  coffee 
and  burns  the  steak,  dries  the  biscuits  into  can- 

104 


A   HINT  TO  HUSBANDS.  10$ 

ister  shot,  and  lets  the  milk  sour.  But  hinders 
and  mars  everything.  He's  a  bad  fellow,  and  I 
wish,  my  dear,  that  you'd  get  rid  of  him." 

Mr.  Rodney  thought  himself  quite  clever  in 
this  speech,  and  the  satisfaction  thence  derived 
almost  put  him  in  a  good  humor. 

Two  children  sat  at  the  table,  one  of  them  a 
boy  nine  years  old,  the  other  a  girl  in  her 
eleventh  year.  The  boy,  imitating  his  father, 
took  one  of  the  hard  biscuits,  and  bouncing  it 
in  his  plate,  called  it  a  canister  shot,  but  the 
girl,  sympathizing  with  her  mother,  broke  her 
biscuit  in  two,  saying : 

"  See !  mine  is  soft  and  nice  inside,  and  I  like 
crust."  She  buttered  it,  and  began  eating  with 
the  true  relish  of  hunger.  The  boy  followed 
her  example,  and  Mr.  Rodney,  feeling,  it  may 
be,  a  slight  rebuke  in  his  daughter's  treatment 
of  the  case,  broke,  with  an  affected  display  of 
strength,  his  biscuit  also,  and  found  in  its  deli 
cate  flavor  a  sweeter  morsel  than  he  had  antici 
pated.  But  his  wife  ate  nothing.  His  ungra 
cious  spirit  had  destroyed  her  appetite. 

It  happened  that  on  the  next  evening  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Rodney,  with  their  two  children,  were  to 
take  tea  and  spend  the  evening  at  a  neighbor's. 


106  A   HINT   TO  HUSBANDS. 

"  I  must  apologize  for  my  biscuits,"  said  the 
lady  hostess  as  the  meal  began.  "  Unfortu 
nately,  they  are  baked  too  much.  In  spite  of 
all  we  can  do,  cooks  will  sometimes  spoil  every 
thing." 

The  apology,  ill-timed  as  such  excuses  often 
are,  was  needed  in  this  case.  The  biscuits  were 
scarcely  presentable.  But  Mr.  Rodney,  away 
from  home,  was  the  model  of  good  breeding, 
and  with  the  blandest  of  smiles,  as  he  pressed 
open  the  tenacious  mass  of  hard-baked  dough 
with  his  fingers,  at  cost,  apparently,  of  no  effort, 
made  answer  : 

"  They  are  very  good,  ma'am — very  good.  I 
like  well-baked  bread,  and  these  are  just  the 
thing.  Overdone  is  not  half  so  bad  as  under 
done.  The  dryer  the  baking,  the  quicker  of 
digestion." 

"  I  only  wish  my  husband  were  as  easily  satis 
fied,"  returned  the  lady,  pleased  with  the  tact 
and  politeness  of  her  guest. 

"  A  very  fine  cup  of  coffee,"  said  Mr.  Rodney, 

looking  in    smiling  approval  across   the   table. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  have  tasted  better." 

'  Five  mornings,  in  the  week  he  tasted  better, 

but  never  said  a  word  in  its  praise.     If,  on  the 


A   HINT  TO  HUSBANDS.  IO/ 

sixth  or  seventh  morning,  the  standard  went 
down  to  that  of  which  he  was  now  drinking, 
Mrs.  Rodney  received  unpleasant  intimation  of 
the  fact. 

Was  he  really  deceived  ?  In  the  pleasant 
social  sphere  that  pervaded  the  company,  did 
taste  find  a  new  sense,  and  extract  from  com 
mon  things  a  more  exquisite  flavor?  It  may 
have  been  so  in  a  degree.  But  the  true  expla 
nation  is  found  in  a  courteous  desire  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Rodney  to  please  and  to  appear 
well. 

"  Did  you  make  fhis  salad  ?" 

Mrs.  Rodney  had  just  taken  a  mouthful  of 
the  chicken  salad  as  her  husband  asked  the 
question,  and  was  tasting  the  rancid  oil. 

"  Yes,  I  made  it."  Pleasure  and  approval 
had  been  perceived  in  Mr.  Rodney's  tones,  and 
satisfaction  mingled  with  pleasure  in  the  lady's 
voice  as  she  thus  replied. 

"  It  is  charming.  I  must  get  you  to  teach  my 
wife  your  secret.  She  makes  a  fine  salad,  I  will 
admit,  but  not  equal  to  this." 

Mrs.  Rodney  swallowed  with  an  effort  the 
mouthful  of  salad  she  had  taken.  It  came 
near  choking  her,  and  she  did  not  try  another. 


108  A   HINT  TO   HUSBANDS. 

With  some  curiosity  and  some  surprise  she 
watched  the  apparent  enjoyment  with  which 
her  husband  ate  the  offensive  mess,  even 
accepting  a  second  supply.  She  did  not  feel 
at  all  complimented  by  his  reference  to  her 
skill  in  salad-making.  That  was  "  the  unkind- 
est  cut  of  all."  It  was  not  possible  for  her  to 
help  contrasting  this  excess  of  approval  in  her 
husband  with  his  excess  of  condemnation  the 
evening  before — this  uncalled-for  praise  of  a 
friend's  housekeeping  with  his  uncalled-for  con 
demnation  of  his  wife's.  As  all  women  do,  she 
laid  these  things  up  in  her  heart  and  pondered 
them. 

During  the  whole  evening  Mr.  Rodney  was 
in  admirable  spirits,  the  very  embodiment  of 
cheerful  good  humor.  Mrs.  Rodney  was  a  little 
more  quiet  than  usual,  sometimes  dull  and 
absent-minded.  The  fact  was,  she  could  not 
forget  the  difference  between  her  husband  at 
home  and  her  husband  abroad — his  treatment 
of  those  who  were  nothing  to  him  and  his  treat 
ment  of  his  wife,  who  should  have  been  all  to 
him.  . 

As  the  children  •  were  along,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Rodney  went  home  at  an  early  hour.  On  the 


A   HINT  TO   HUSBANDS.  1 09 

way  back  Mr.  Rodney  was  talkative,  and  had 
many  pleasant  things  to  say  of  the  friends  with 
whom  they  had  spent  the  evening,  but  Mrs. 
Rodney  was  irresponsive  and  almost  silent.  She 
could  not  forget. 

"  Don't  you  feel  well  ?"  asked  Mr.  Rodney,  at 
last  becoming  aware  that  his  wife  was  far  from 
being  in  like  fine  spirits  with  himself.  They  were 
at  their  own  door. 

"  My  head  aches  a  little."  It  was  true,  but 
her  heart  ached  more.  Something  whispered 
into  the  dull  ears  of  Mr.  Rodney  a  remote  sug 
gestion  of  what  the  truth  might  be,  and  then 
followed  certain  remembrances  that  set  him  to 
thinking  in  a  new  direction.  It  was  his  turn  to 
become  silent:  speech  died  on  his  lips  as  he 
passed  his  own  threshold.  A  certain  heaviness 
of  atmosphere  weighed  on  his  bosom  like  a 
nightmare.  What  could  it  mean?  Self-love 
was  not  ready  to  take  the  blame,  and  went 
searching  about  for  the  offending  agent. 

"  If  she  were  more  cheerful  and  even  tem 
pered."  Who  was  she?  His  wife,  of  course. 

Mr.  Rodney  sat  down  to  read,  and  Mrs, 
Rodney  went  over  to  their  sleeping-rooms 
with  the  children,  who  were  soon  in  bed. 


10 


IIO  A  HINT  TO  HUSBANDS. 

But  the  evening's  excitement  kept  them 
awake. 

"What  are  they  talking  about?"  said  Mr. 
Rodney,  looking  up  from  his  book.  His  wife 
had  joined  him. 

Mrs.  Rodney  did  not  answer. 

"Just  listen  to  their  tongues!"  and  the 
father  arose,  adding,  in  a  pleased,  interested 
voice,  "  I  must  enjoy  it  with  them,"  and  stepped 
lightly  from  the  room.  As  he  reached  the  door 
opening  into  the  chamber  where  the  children 
lay,  and  stood  just  on  the  outside,  he  heard  this 
remark  from  the  little  girl : 

"They  weren't  half  as  good  as  those  we  had 
last  night,  and  father  praised  them  and  said  he 
liked  hard  biscuits.  I  wonder  what  mother 
thought?  I  guess  she  remembered  what  he 
said  about  her  biscuits,  that  were  twice  as 
good." 

"  If  father  chooses  to  praise  anybody's  things, 
hasn't  he  got  a  right  to  do  it  ?"  demanded  the 
brother,  in  a  hectoring  kind  of  way. 

"  I  s'pose  he's  got  the  right,"  was  answered, 
"but  that  isn't  the  thing.  'Twasn't  kind  to 
talk  to  mother  in  the  way  he  did,  and  then 
praise  another  woman  before  her  face  for 


A   HINT  TO   HUSBANDS.  Ill 

doing  ten  times  as  bad.  That's  what  I  look 
at." 

"  Oh  pshaw  !  You  don't  know.  Hasn't  father 
got  a  right  to  speak  when  he  pleases  ?"  said 
the  embryo  tyrant. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do  know."  The  child's 
voice  rose  to  a  clearer  tone. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?" 

"That  mother's  coffee  is  twice  as  good  as 
Mrs.  Glenn's,  and  yet  father  never  praises  it. 
But  if  it  happens  to  get  wrong  once  in  a  while, 
don't  mother  -hear  something!  I  guess  she 
does  !  Did  you  taste  that  chicken  salad  ?" 

"Yes."  The  boy's  tone  was  not  quite  so 
arrogant. 

"  Could  you  eat  it  ?" 

"  No." 

"And  father  said  it  was  charming,  and  that 
he  must  get  Mrs.  Glenn  to  teach  mother  how 
to  make  chicken  salad !  It  was  a  shame  !  And 
mother  sitting  right  there!  I  couldn't  help 
looking  at  her,  and  I  know  she  felt  bad. 
He's  always  finding  fault  with  what  she  does, 
and  I  wish  he  wouldn't  do  it.  It  wasn't  true, 
neither." 

It's  an  old  saying  that  listeners  never  hear 


112  A   HINT  TO  HUSBANDS. 

any  good  of  themselves :  Mr.  Rodney  proved 
the  truth  of  the  adage  on  this  occasion.  He 
did  not  linger  to  enjoy  more,  but  silently 
retired,  something  wiser  than  when  he  left  the 
family  sitting-room.  Mrs.  Rodney  did  not  ask 
him  about  the  children's  talk,  and  he  was 
not  inclined  to  be  communicative  on  that  sub 
ject. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Rodney  surprised  his  wife, 
and  the  children  also,  by  saying,  after  tasting  his 
coffee, 

"This  is  delicious!" 

Was  it  earnest  or  irony?  Mrs.  Rodney's 
color  heightened.  She  looked  doubtingly  at 
her  husband. 

"As  good  as  Mrs.  Glenn's?"  asked  his 
daughter,  glancing  at  her  father  with  an  arch 
expression. 

"  Yes,  you  saucy  little  rogue !  and  a  great 
deal  better.  Mrs.  Glenn  cannot  begin  to  make 
coffee  like  this." 

"  But  she  can  beat  mother  at  chicken  salad. 
Mother's  oil  has  no  taste  to  it." 

"  Annie  !  Annie  !"  Mrs.  Rodney  spoke  to  the 
child  in  a  reproving  voice. 

"Fairly    hit!"    said    Mr.    Rodney    in    good 


A   HINT  TO   HUSBANDS.  113 

humor.  "  But  you  know,  dear,"  he  added,  try 
ing  to  put  himself  right  with  the  child,  "  that 
we  must  seem  pleased  with  the  entertainment 
others  provide  for  us.  It  would  have  been 
very  impolite  in  me  to  have  shown  that  I  tasted 
the  rancid  oil." 

"You  needn't  have  said  anything  about  it," 
frankly  answered  the  artless  child. 

"  I  guess  you're  about  right,  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Rodney.  "  I  overacted  my  part,  but  I  won't  do 
so  again.  This  steak  is  very  tender."  Mr. 
Rodney  looked  from  his  daughter  to  his  wife, 
thus  changing  the  subject. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it."  There  was  a  pleased 
manner  about  Mrs.  Rodney  that  her  husband 
did  not  fail  to  observe.  She  felt  better  all  day 
for  the  few  words  of  approval  which  had  escap 
ed  her  husband's  lips.  At  dinner-time  no  fault 
was  found  with  anything — a  rare  occurrence ; 
rarer  still,  he  expressed  satisfaction  with  a  dish 
provided  with  the  design  of  giving  him  pleasure. 
The  biscuits  at  tea-time  were  a  failure  again, 
the  careless  cook  having  spoiled  them  by  over- 
baking.  Mr.  Rodney,  not  appearing  to  notice 
their  hardness,  said : 

"  You  have  the  art  of  giving  a  peculiar  sweet- 
10*  H 


114  A   HINT  TO  HUSBANDS. 

ness  to  everything  you  make.  These  are  very 
toothsome." 

It  cost  little  or  no  effort  to  say  these  few 
words,  yet  were  they  far  sweeter  to  the  ears  of 
his  wife  than  was  the  food  to  his  taste.  What 
a  new  sphere  of  pleasantness  and  tranquillity 
pervaded,  during  the  evening  that  followed,  the 
home  of  Mr.  Rodney !  It  was  as  though  hus 
band  and  wife  had  passed  from  dull,  shaded 
rooms  into  wide  apartments  down  into  which, 
through  crystal  ceilings,  the  light  of  heaven  was 
falling.  The  old  charm  came  back  into  Mrs. 
Rodney's  face,  softening  yet  elevating  its  beauty, 
and  her  voice  stirred  memories  and  feelings  in 
the  breast  of  her  husband  which,  long  sleeping, 
had  seemed  dead. 

"  I  have  been  blind,  but  now  I  see."  Thus 
spoke  Mr.  Rodney  with  himself  as  he  lay 
musing  on  his  bed  that  night.  "These  com 
mon  things  of  our  daily  lives  are  as  husks  that 
contain  sweet  kernels  if  we  will  but  rend  them 
to  extract  what  nestles  within.  If  we  chew  the 
husks  alone,  we  shall  find  dryness  and  bitter 
ness.  I  have  tasted  both  husk  and  kernel,  and 
know  where  sweetness  and  nutrition  lie." 

After  that,  Mr.  Rodney  was  charier  of  com- 


A   HINT   TO  HUSBANDS.  1 15 

plaint  and  more  lavish  of  approval.  The  new 
life  which  pervaded  his  household  was  so  sunny 
and  cheerful  that,  no  matter  how  rough  the 
world  went  with  him  on  the  outside,  his  soul 
became  peaceful  within  its  walls.  He  had,  in 
being  kind  and  just,  taken  thorns  from  a  pillow 
whereon,  until  now,  he  had  failed  to  secure 
tranquil  repose. 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

DON'T  just  like  the  tone  of  Martha's 
letters,"  said  Mrs.  Barton  to  her 
husband  one  day.  Martha  was  a 
daughter  who  had  been  married  for  three  or 
four  months,  and  was  then  living  several  hun 
dred  miles  away  from  the  town  in  which  her 
parents  resided. 

"  Nor  do  I,"  was  the  answer.  "  If  Edward  is 
in  anything  unkind  to  her,  I  have  been  greatly 
deceived  in  him." 

"  There  are  peculiarities  of  character  and 
temperament  in  every  one  that  only  a  close  inti 
macy  can  make  apparent.  And  Martha  has 
these  as  well  as  Edward.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  something  unseen  before  has  revealed  it 
self  since  marriage,  and  stands  as  a  source  of 
irritation  between  them." 

Mr.  Barton   sighed.     He  was  very  fond  of 

116 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  1 1/ 

Martha.  She  had  been  a  pet  with  him  since 
childhood,  and  this  separation,  in  consequence 
of  her  marriage,  was  a  great  trial.  The  thought 
of  her  being  unhappy  pained  him. 

"  Suppose/'  he  said,  "  we  send  for  her  to 
come  home  and  make  us  a  visit.  It  is  nearly 
four  months  since  she  went  away." 

"  I  was  going  to  suggest  something  different." 

"What?" 

"  A  visit  to  Martha." 

"  That  will  be  out  of  the  question,  at  least  for 
me,"  said  Mr.  Barton. 

"  I  did  not  mean,"  replied  Mrs.  Barton,  smil 
ing,  "  to  include  you  in  the  visit." 

"  Oh,  then  you  propose  to  take  all  the  pleas 
ure  to  yourself?  Now,  it  strikes  me  as  a  better 
arrangement  to  have  Martha  pay  us  a  visit.  It 
will  do  her  a  great  deal  more  good  than  merely 
to  receive  a  visit  from  you.  She  will  get  back 
for  a  little  while  into  her  old  home,  and  see 
father  and  mother  both.  And  then  I  will  come 
in  for  a  portion  of  the  enjoyment,  which  is  to 
be  considered." 

"  I've  thought  of  all  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Barton, 
"  and  yet  favor  the  visit  to  Martha.  The  reason 
is  this :  If  I  go  there,  and  stay  a  week  or  two, 


Il8  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

I  will  have  an  opportunity  to  see  how  she  and 
Edward  are  getting  along  together.  We  must 
live  with  people,  you  know,  to  find  out  all  about 
them.  There  may  be  some  little  impediments 
to  happiness  lying  right  in  their  path  which  I 
may  help  them  to  pick  up  and  cast  aside — some 
little  want  of  adaptation  in  the  machinery  of 
their  lives  which  prevents  a  movement  in  har 
mony  that  I  may  show  them  how  to  adjust." 

"  I  guess  you  are  right,  taking  that  view  of  the 
case,"  said  Mr.  Barton. 

The  visit  of  Mrs.  Barton  was  made  accord 
ingly.  After  the  first  brief  season  of  gladness 
that  followed  the  meeting  with  her  mother  had 
passed,  Martha's  countenance  showed  some 
lines  not  written  there  by  sweet  content.  The 
mother  asked  no  questions,  however,  in  the  be 
ginning,  calculated  to  draw  Martha  out.  She 
wanted  a  little  time  for  observation.  The  young 
husband  was  bright,  cheerful,  attentive  and 
fond,  as  he  had  appeared  to  her  before  the  wed 
ding  day.  But  on  the  second  morning  after  her 
arrival  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  talk  quite  so 
freely  as  usual  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  had 
something  very  much  like  a  cloud  over  the  sun 
shine  of  his  countenance.  Martha's  manner 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  lig 

was  a  little  constrained  also,  and  her  face  a  lit 
tle  sober.  Once  or  twice  during  the  meal  Ed 
ward  exhibited  a  feeling  of  annoyance  at  things 
not  rightly  ordered. 

Mrs.  Barton  was  already  beginning  to  see  the 
little  impediments  and  obstructions  to  which 
she  had  referred  in  talking  with  her  husband. 
But  she  did  not  encourage  Martha  to  speak  on 
the  subject.  She  wanted  to  see  more  and  un 
derstand  the  case  better.  On  the  third  day  the 
cause  of  trouble  between  Edward  and  Martha — 
for  a  discordant  string  was  really  jarring  in  the 
harmony  of  their  lives — became  more  clearly 
apparent  to  the  mother.  The  little  external  re 
straint  which  had  been  assumed  at  the  begin 
ning  of  her  visit  by  both  of  the  young  people 
was  gradually  laid  aside,  and  she  saw  them  in 
the  real  life  they  were  living. 

The  basis  of  the  difficulty  lay  in  the  total  un- 
fitness  of  Martha  for  the  position  she  had  as 
sumed — that  of  housekeeper,  we  mean — and, 
in  consequence,  her  young  husband,  in  whose 
ideal  of  home  perfect  order  had  been  included, 
found  everything  so  different  from  his  anticipa 
tions  that  a  graceful  acquiescence  was  impos 
sible. 


120  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SOX  ROW. 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  Edward," 
said  Martha  to  her  mother  on  the  morning  of 
the  fourth  day,  after  her  husband  had  left  for 
his  place  of  business.  Her  eyes  were  swim 
ming  in  tears,  for  Edward  had  spoken  hastily 
and  with  ill  nature  at  the  breakfast- table.  "He 
used  to  be  so  kind,  so  gentle,  so  considerate  of 
my  comfort  and  feelings,  but  he  seems  to  be 
growing  more  impatient  and  harsh  in  his  man 
ner  every  day." 

"  Has  the  reason  of  this  never  occurred  to 
you  ?"  Mrs.  Barton's  manner  was  grave. 

"  I  can  imagine  no  reason  for  the  change,"  re 
plied  Martha. 

"  He  is  disappointed  in  something,  evidently. 
He  does  not  find  in  you  all  he  had  expected." 

"  Mother !"  The  young  wife  had  a  startled 
look. 

"It  must  be  so,  Martha,  else  why  should  he 
be  different  from  what  he  was  ?  He  has  had  an 
ideal  of  a  wife,  and  you  have  failed  to  reach  this 
ideal." 

The  face  of  Martha,  which  had  flushed,  became 
almost  pale. 

"  And  I  am  free  to  own,"  continued  the  mo 
ther,  "that  you  fall  considerably  below  my 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  121 

ideal.  I  do  not  wonder  at  Edward's  disappoint 
ment." 

Tears  began  to  fall  over  the  young  wife's 
cheeks. 

"  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  sobbing,  "  that  I  have 
been  to  him  all  that  I  know  how  to  be.  If  love 
would  draw  upon  me  favors  and  kindness,  he 
would  never  look  at  me,  as  he  does  sometimes, 
with  cold  eyes  and  a  clouded  face,  nor  speak  in 
angry  impatience,  words  that  hurt  me  worse 
than  blows." 

"  But  you  have  not  done  for  him  all  that  you 
know  how  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Barton. 

"I  fail  to  comprehend  you,  mother,"  was  re 
plied  to  this. 

"  You  do  not  make  his  home  as  pleasant  as  it 
should  be.  There  seems  to  be  no  anticipation 
of  his  wants,  and  no  provision  against  discom 
fort.  Everything  is  left  to  your  two  servants, 
who  do  pretty  much  as  they  please." 

"Why,  mother!" 

"  It  is  true,  my  daughter.  I  have  looked  on 
with  closely  observant  eyes  since  I  have  been 
here,  and  must  say  that  I  am  disappointed  in 
you.  In  every  case  that  Edward  has  shown  im 
patience  in  my  presence,  the  source  of  annoy- 
11 


122  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

ance  lay  in  your  neglect  of  a  plain  household 
duty.  It  was  so  this  morning  and  so  yester 
day." 

"  He  was  annoyed  at  the  burnt  steak  this 
morning,"  said  Martha,  in.  answer.  "That 
wasn't  my  fault,  I  am  sure.  I'm  not  the  cook." 

"  It  is  your  place  to  have  a  competent  cook," 
said  Mrs.  Barton. 

"If  I  can  find  one,  mother." 

"  The  one  you  have  now  is  not  to  be  trusted 
to  prepare  a  meal." 

"I  know  that,  but  how  can  I  help  myself?" 

"  And  knowing  that,  you  never  went  near  the 
kitchen  to  see  that  she  did  not  spoil  the  steak 
intended  for  your  husband's  breakfast.  It  might 
have  taken  you  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  to  super 
intend  personally  the  preparation  of  this  morn 
ing's  meal,  and  so  made  it  worthy  of  being  set 
before  your  husband,  but  instead  of  this  you 
sat  reading  or  talking  from  the  time  you  were 
dressed  until  the  bell  rang.  When  we  went 
down  there  was  no  butter  on  the  table,  no  knife 
and  fork  to  the  dish  of  meat,  no  salt,  nor  any 
napkin  at  your  husband's  plate.  The  table 
cloth  was  soiled,  and  you  scolded  the  waiter  for 
not  putting  on  a  clean  one.  The  meal  opened 


A    YOUNG    WIPERS  SORROW.  12$ 

in  disorder,  which  you  might  have  prevented  by 
a  little  forethought,  and  progressed  and  ended 
in  annoyance  and  bad  feeling.  Now,  who  was 
to  blame  for  all  this  ?" 

"  But,  mother,  you  don't  expect  me  to  go  into 
the  kitchen  and  cook  ?"  said  Martha. 

"The  captain  who  undertakes  to  sail  a  ship 
must  know  all  about  navigation.  Is  it  more  un 
reasonable  to  expect  that  a  woman  who  takes 
upon  herself  the  obligations  of  a  wife  should 
know  how  to  conduct  a  household  ?  Is  a  woman 
less  responsible  in  her  position  than  a  man  ?  If 
so,  what  moral  laws  give  the  distinction?  I 
have  not  seen  them.  The  captain  does  not 
trust  the  ship  wholly  to  the  man  at  the  helm. 
He  takes  observations,  examines  charts  and  sees 
and  knows  for  himself  that  everything  is  done 
at  the  right  time  and  in  the  right  place.  His 
thought  and  his  will  are  active  and  predominant 
in  every  part  of  the  ship,  for  on  him  rests  all 
the  responsibility.  And  it  is  so  everywhere  in 
man's  work.  You  ask  if  I  expect  you  to  go  into 
the  kitchen  and  cook.  I  answer,  Yes,  in  case 
there  is  no  one  else  to  prepare  your  husband's 
food.  If  you  have  an  incompetent  cook,  or  one 
not  to  be  trusted,  then  it  is  your  duty  to  make 


124  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

up  her  deficiencies  by  a  personal  attendance  in 
the  kitchen  just  as  often  and  just  as  long  as  the 
case  may  require.  You  contracted  to  do  this 
when  you  became  a  wife." 

"  I  don't  remember  that  the  subject  was  even 
referred  to,"  said  Martha,  who  did  not  yet  see 
clearly,  and  who  felt  that  her  mother's  view  of 
the  case  actually  degraded  the  wife  into  a  house 
hold  drudge. 

"  Was  it  stipulated,"  answered  Mrs.  Barton, 
"  that  Edward  should  engage  in  business,  giving 
himself  up  to  daily  care  and  work  in  order  to 
secure  for  his  wife  the  comforts  of  a  home  ?  I 
don't  remember  that  the  subject  was  even  re 
ferred  to.  And  yet  it  was  as  much  implied  in 
the  act  of  taking  a  wife  as  the  other  was  implied 
in  the  act  of  assuming  the  relation  that  you 
now  hold.  Do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
he  isn't  active  in  every  part  of  his  business  ? — 
that  he  trusts  an  incompetent  clerk  as  you 
trust  an  incompetent  cook  ?  Thought,  purpose, 
hands,  are  all  busy  in  his  work,  and  busy 
throughout  every  day — busy  for  you  as  well  as 
for  himself.  He  can't  find  time  for  reading 
during  four  or  five  hours  of  every  day,  nor  time 
for  calls  on  pleasant  friends  ;  no,  no.  His  work 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  125 

would  suffer,  losses  might  follow  and  comfort 
and  luxury  fail  for  the  wife  he  toils  for.  But 
this  wife  is  too  indolent  or  too  proud  to  go 
down  into  her  kitchen  and  see  that  his  food  is 
made  palatable  and  healthy,  to  be  present  in  all 
parts  of  his  household  with  taste,  order,  neat 
ness,  economy  and  cleanliness.  I  don't  won 
der  that  he  is  disappointed  and  dissatisfied." 

Martha's  perceptions  were  beginning  to  be  a 
little  enlightened.  She  did  not  make  any  reply. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  how  I  have  found  it  in  your 
badly-managed  household,"  resumed  the  mother. 
"  Perhaps  seeing  through  my  eyes  may  help  you 
to  a  better  appreciation  of  things  as  they  act 
ually  are.  Twice  since  I  have  been  here  there 
has  been  no  water  in  my  room,  and  I  have  had 
to  come  down  in  the  morning  and  get  it  for 
myself." 

"Oh,  mother!  That  is  too  bad!  To  think 
that  Margaret  should  have  been  so  careless !" 
The  daughter's  face  crimsoned. 

"  Now,  if  you  had  been  a  careful  housekeeper, 
or  a  thoughtful  one,  you  would  have  visited  my 
chamber  to  see  that  all  was  right  there.  You 
would  never  have  left  your  mother's  comfort 

dependent  on  the  uncertain  administration  of  a 
11* 


126  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

servant.  Next,  the  room  hasn't  been  dusted 
twice  since  I  have  been  here.  My  fingers  are 
soiled  with  everything  I  touch,  and  I  am  sure 
it  hasn't  been  swept  under  the  bed  or  bureau 
for  a  month.  But  this  only  affects  your  guests 
— is  only  so  much  taken  from  their  comfort. 
Let  us  look  at  some  things  that  involve  the 
comfort  of  your  husband,  for  these  are  of  high 
est  consideration.  You  asked  him  yesterday 
morning  to  get  you  some  pink-lined  envelopes. 
He  brought  them  at  dinner-time.  He  asked 
you  to  darn  a  rent  in  a  black  alpaca  coat,  so 
that  he  could  wear  it.  Did  you  do  as  he  re 
quested?  No;  you  read  and  toyed  with  fine 
needlework  all  the  morning,  but  never  touched 
the  coat,  and  when  he  asked  for  it  what  reply 
did  you  make  ?  Oh,  you  hated  darning  above 
all  things,  and  told  him  he'd  better  direct  his 
tailor  to  send  for  it.  The  day  had  become  un 
usually  warm,  and  he  had  to  go  out  after  dinner 
wearing  a  thick  cloth  coat,  just  because  you  had 
almost  willfully  neglected  to  perform  so  slight  a 
service  for  your  husband.  Do  you  imagine  that 
he  never  thought  of  your  failure  to  do  for  him 
what  he  had  asked  ? — that  he  didn't  feel  your 
indifference  to  his  comfort?  Your  kiss,  de- 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  I2/ 

pend  upon  it,  Martha,  touched  his  lips  coldly, 
and  your  loving  words,  if  any  were  spoken,  were 
as  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal  in  his 
ears.  He  looked  past  all  lip  affirmations  and 
saw  the  failure  in  deed. 

"And  failure  in  deed  seems  to  be  the  rule 
under  your  administration  of  his  household  in 
stead  of  the  exception.  Most  especially  is  this 
the  case  in  what  appertains  to  the  dining-room 
and  kitchen.  The  meals  are  always  badly 
cooked  and  badly  served.  The  slovenliness 
with  which  Margaret  sets  the  table  is  a  disgrace 
to  herself  and  a  standing  rebuke  to  her  mistress. 
I  haven't  seen  a  really  clean  dish — as  I  regard 
cleanliness — since  I  have  been  here,  nor  a 
clean  knife  or  fork.  Your  cruet-stand  is  offen 
sive  to  the  eye.  There  is  a  smeared  mustard 
bottle  with  a  smeared  spoon,  a  ketchup-bottle 
with  half  an  inch  of  tomato  ketchup  at  the  bot 
tom,  and  an  oil  bottle  empty.  Pepper  and  vin 
egar  bottles  I  will  not  describe.  The  cruet- 
stand  itself  is  as  dark  as  lead,  and  the  napkin- 
rings  and  spoons  not  much  better." 

"  Pray  stop,  mother !"  said  Martha,  inter 
posing,  with  a  face  rather  nearer  to  scarlet  than 
white. 


128  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

"  No ;  I  must  say  a  word  or  two  farther.  Can 
such  things  be,  and  escape  your  husband's  ob 
servation  ?  Can  such  things  be,  and  not  prove 
a  daily  offence  and  annoyance  to  him  ?  Can 
such  things  be,  and  not  irritate  him,  at  times, 
into  unkindness?  He  would  be  more  than 
mortal,  my  child,  were  he  temper-proof  against 
assaults  upon  good-nature,  like  these." 

Martha  was  not  a  fool,  though  there  are  too 
many  in  her  position,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  to 
whom  the  word  most  significantly  applies.  She 
saw  through  her  mother's  clearer  vision  the 
blindness  in  which  she  had  been  and  the  folly 
of  her  defective  household  administration ;  saw 
that  in  holding  herself  above  domestic  duties 
and  manipulations  she  was  governed  more  by 
pride  and  indolence  than  a  just  regard  for  wifely 
or  womanly  dignity ;  saw  that  to  hold  fast  her 
husband's  love  she  must  do  something  more  for 
him  than  offer  loving  words ;  for  life,  being  real 
and  earnest,  demanded  earnest  work  from  all — 
from  the  delicate  wife  as  well  as  from  the  more 
enduring  husband. 

On  the  next  morning,  as  Edward  lifted  his 
cup  to  his  lips,  he  said,  with  a  smile  of  pleasure : 

"What  fine  coffee,   Martha!     I   don't   know 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  1 29 

when  I  have  tasted  anything  so  delicious.  Your 
handiwork,  I  infer?" 

And  Edward  looked  from  his  wife  to  her 
mother. 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Barton ;  "  it  is  none  of 
my  handiwork." 

"  But  it's  ,  mine,"  said  the  young-  wife,  who 
could  not  keep  back  the  acknowledgment,  her 
pleasure  in  seeing  her  husband's  pleasure  was 
so  great. 

"  Yours  ?"  Edward  set  down  his  cup  and 
looked  across  the  table  in  real  surprise. 

"Yes,B  mine.  I  made  the  coffee  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  You  did  ?  Well,  as  I  said,  it  is  delicious ! 
I  wouldn't  give  this  cup  of  coffee  for  all  the 
stuff  that  has  been  made  in  the  house  since  we 
entered  it." 

The  steak  was  praised  next. 

"  Did  you  cook  this  also  ?"  asked  the  hus 
band. 

"  I  superintended  the  work,"  was  answered. 

"  It  is  only  necessary  for  some  people  to  look 
at  things  and  they  will  come  all  right,"  said  Ed 
ward,  "  and  I  shouldn't  wonder,  Martha,  if  you 
belonged  to  the  number." 


130  A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW. 

There  was  a  compliment  and  a  reproof  in  the 
sentence,  and  both  were  felt. 

"  Do  I  need  to  say  another  word,  my 
daughter?"  said  Mrs.  Barton  when  she  was 
alone  with  Martha  again. 

"  I  think  not,  mother,"  was  answered.  "  Since 
our  talk  yesterday  I  have  been  looking  at  my 
place  as  a  young  wife  from  a  new  stand-point, 
and  I  find  that  I  have,  not  understood  my  duties. 
But  they  are  very  plain  now,  and  I  shall  not 
need  another  reminder.  Young  girls  .fall  into 
some  strange  notions  about  a  wife's  condition. 
They  think  of  it  as  something  more  ornamental 
than  useful — as  invested  with  more  queenly  dig 
nity  than  a  homely  administration  of  service  in 
the  household.  She  is  to  be  loved  and  petted 
and  cared  for  with  untiring  devotion  and  ten-* 
derness,  but  caring  for  her  husband  in  the  un 
attractive  uses  of  a  family  in  the  kitchen,  if  need 
be,  does  not  enter  some  imaginations  as  a  thing 
at  all  included  in  the  relation  of  husband  and 
wife." 

"  And  coldness,  irritation,  ill-nature,  and  too 
often  alienations,  are  the  consequences,"  said 
Mrs.  Barton.  "  You  felt  a  change  in  your  hus 
band.  Did  not  the  cause  present  itself?" 


A    YOUNG    WIFE'S  SORROW.  13! 

"  Not  until  you  pointed  it  out  to  me." 

"  Can  it  be  possible  that  you  were  so  blind, 
my  daughter  ?" 

"  I  was  just  so  blind,  mother !" 

"  Do  you  wonder  that  Edward  was  annoyed 
at  times  ?" 

"  I  wonder  that  he  had  so  much  forbearance," 
was  the  reply.  "I  wonder  that  he  did  not  speak 
out  plainly  and  tell  me  my  duty." 

"  You  might  not  have  understood  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Barton.  "  He  could  not  have  said  all  that 
I  have  said.  There  would  have  been  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  selfish  regard  for  his  own  comfort. 
Young  wives  do  not  always  understand  a  hus 
band's  reproving  words,  which  are  more  apt  to 
blind  than  to  enlighten,  for  they  are  usually 
spoken  under  the  impulses  of  chafed  feelings. 
It  is  better,  therefore,  that  I  should  have  helped 
you  to  see  clearly  in  a  matter  involving  so  many 
consequences." 


X. 

LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES. 

iHERE  had  been  a  domestic  storm  in 
the  household  of  Mr.  Nicholson,  and 
such  storms,  we  regret  to  say,  had 
become  rather  frequent  in  that  household.  Mr. 
Nicholson  was  a  man  of  amiable  temper  and 
kind  feelings,  but  with  defects  of  character  that 
were  often  particularly  annoying  to  his  wife,  a 
quick-tempered  woman,  who,  when  once  fairly 
aroused,  made  everything  stand  around  her,  as 
the  saying  is.  Mr.  Nicholson  was  apt  to  forget 
and  neglect — two  faults  with  which  Mrs.  Nich 
olson  had  no  patience,  especially  when  this  for 
getting  and  neglecting  interfered  with  matters 
bearing  a  relation  to  her  daily  round  of  duties. 

A  thorough  business-training,  from  youth  up 
to  manhood,  and  consequent  habits  of  order, 
with  a  methodical  routine  of  doing  things,  en 
sured  to  Mr.  Nicholson  success  as  a  merchant. 

132 


LOOKING   FOR    WRINKLES.  133 

Without  these  important  adjuncts  to  business 
his  naturally  easy  and  amiable  qualities  would 
have  sadly  interfered  with  his  material  interests. 
But  neglect  and  forgetfulness  were  out  of  the 
question  where  order  and  routine  were  strictly 
observed.  It  was  out  of  his  business  where 
.Mr.  Nicholson's  peculiar  weaknesses  were  seen. 
He  was  one  of  the  class  of  men  who  keep  their 
wives  waiting,  and  who  deserve  the  scolding 
they  not  unfrequently  receive — who  forget  to 
execute  the  little  household  commissions  en 
trusted  to  them,  and  neglect  from  day  to  day 
and  from  week  to  week  the  doing  of  things  ab 
solutely  necessary  to  be  done  in  order  to  secure 
comfort  at  home. 

"  Edward,"  Mrs.  Nicholson  might  say  as  her 
husband  is  leaving  for  his  place  of  business  in 
the  morning,  "  won't  you  stop  at  the  store  as 
you  go  down  and  tell  Mr.  Perkins  to  send  up 
a  bag  of  salt  and  a  gallon  of  vinegar?" 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  Nicholson  answers,  and  in  a 
way  so  cheerfully  acquiescent  that  his  wife  feels 
pleasure  in  his  manifest  willingness  to  oblige. 
But  scarcely  is  Mr.  Nicholson  ten  paces  from 
his  own  door  ere  some  matter  of  business  in 
trudes  itself,  and  so  fully  occupies  his  thoughts 
12 


134  LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES. 

that  he  passes  the  store  of  Mr.  Perkins,  and  even 
nods  to  Mr.  Perkins  himself,  without  once  think 
ing  of  the  salt  and  vinegar.  Nor  until  salt  and 
vinegar  are  thrown  upon  him  from  the  face  and 
lips  of  his  aggravated  wife  at  dinner-time  is  he 
again  consciously  aware  that  such  articles  exist. 

"It  is  too  bad,  I  declare!"  he  may  answer; 
or,  "  What  a  terrible  memory  I  have !"  or,  "  I 
deserve  a  good  scolding !"  But  Mr.  Nicholson 
never  resents  his  wife's  use  of  salt  and  vinegar 
in  such  cases.  Her  anger  is  but  a  passing 
storm,  and  he  knows  that  the  sky  will  soon  be 
clear  again.  Still,  these  outbreaks  are  by  no 
means  agreeable,  and  it  is  one  of  his  chief  re 
grets  that  Mrs.  Nicholson's  handsome  face  is  so 
often  marred  by  unbecoming  passion.  He  tries 
to  be  more  thoughtful  in  regard  to  her  wishes, 
but  habit  is  strong,  and  he  goes  on  offending. 

There  had  been,  as  we  have  intimated,  one  of 
these  too  often  recurring  storms  in  the  house 
hold  of  Mr.  Nicholson.  His  wife  had  said  to 
him  one  morning — it  is  a  little  remarkable, 
knowing  his  particular  infirmity,  that  she  so 
steadily  persisted  in  burdening  him  with  com 
missions,  not  the  half  of  which  were  ever  at 
tended  to — 


LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES.  135 

"Edward,  won't  you  stop  at  Mr.  Blackwell's 
as  you  go  along  and  ask  Mrs.  Blackwell  to  send 
me  up  that  pattern  of  a  basque  I  lent  her? 
Margaret  is  coming,  this  morning  to  make  one 
for  me.  She  can  only  give  me  a  part  of  to-day. 
Now,  don't  forget  it,  please." 

"  A  basque  pattern  did  you  say  ?"  Mr.  Nich 
olson  was  always  ready  to  oblige  his  wife. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Blackwell  will  know  the  pattern 
I  mean.  Tell  her  I  would  have  sent  for  it,  but 
that  I  have  only  one  girl  this  week,  and  she  is 
so  cross  that  it  is  almost  as  much  as  my  life  is 
worth  to  ask  her  to  do  anything  out  of  the 
kitchen." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  send  a  note  ?"  suggested 
Mr.  Nicholson. 

"  It  is  not  worth  while.  Mrs.  Blackwell  will 
know  what  I  mean.  It  is  a  pattern  I  lent  her  a 
few  days  ago.  Now,  don't  forget,  Edward.  Re 
member  that  Margaret  will  be  here  this  morn 
ing,  and  she  can't  do  anything  until  she  gets  the 
pattern." 

"I'll  attend  to  it,"  said  the  husband  as  he 
parted  from  his  wife.  But  he  didn't  attend  to 
it,  and  it  was  a  foolish  thing  in  Mrs.  Nicholson, 
knowing  his  infirmity,  to  entrust  him  with  any 


136  LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES. 

commission  of  importance.  Almost  past  the 
door  of  Mrs.  Blackwell  he  went  without  a 
thought  of  the  basque  coming  into  his  mind,  and 
he  kept  on  to  his  store,  remaining  altogether 
oblivious  to  the  subject. 

In  due  time  Margaret  arrived  as  per  engage 
ment.  Everything  was  ready  for  her  except 
the  basque  pattern,  and  that  was  still  to  be 
received  from  Mrs.  Blackwell.  Mrs.  Nicholson 
was  considerably  annoyed  by  this  delay,  and 
talked  out  her  feelings  to  Margaret  pretty 
freely,  as  women  of  her  peculiar  temperament 
are  wont  to  do  on  such  occasions.  She  had 
two  or  three  theories  touching  the  matter. 
Now  she  was  certain  her  husband  had  forgotten 
to  call  at  Mrs.  Blackwell's,  and  now  she  was 
quite  as  sure  that  he  had  called,  and  that 
Mrs.  Blackwell  did  not  see  fit  to  put  herself 
to  any  special  trouble  in  sending  the  pattern 
home. 

"  Let  me  go  for  it,"  said  Margaret.  But  Mrs. 
Nicholson  answered : 

"  No.  I'm  certain  Mr.  Nicholson  called, 
and  in  that  case  I  wish  her  to  send  it  home. 
She  ought  to  have  done  it,  anyhow,  before 
this." 


LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES.  137 

Hour  after  hour  passed,  but  no  pattern  came. 
Beyond  measure  was  Mrs.  Nicholson  annoyed, 
and  had  she  not  cause  for  annoyance  ?  No 
lady-reader  will  gainsay  this  for  an  instant.  It 
was  a  trying  case.  Two  or  three  times  Mar 
garet  renewed  her  request  to  be  permitted  to 
go  after  the  pattern,  but  the  more  the  subject 
was  pondered  by  Mrs.  Nicholson,  the  stronger 
became  her  conviction  that  the  neglect  was 
all  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Blackwell. 

Finally,  after  waiting  two  or  three  hours, 
until  it  was  too  late  to  finish  the  basque  on  that 
day,  even  if  the  pattern  were  at  hand,  Margaret 
went  away,  leaving  the  disappointed  Mrs.  Nichol 
son  in  the  worst  possible  humor  with  herself  and 
with  every  one  else. 

The  day  was  just  burying  itself  in  shadows 
when  Mr.  Nicholson,  weary  in  mind  from  busi 
ness  cares  and  pleased  to  get  home,  stepped 
across  the  threshold.  His  little  pet,  May,  had 
been  watching  at  the  parlor  window  during  the 
space  of  half  an  hour,  and  at  the  first  glimpse 
of  his  form  had  sprung  away  from  her  position 
and  was  at  the  door,  ready  to  be  caught  up  into 
her  father's  arms  almost  as  soon  as  he  had 

swung   it  open.     And  she  was    so   caught  up 
12* 


138  LOOKING   FOR    WRINKLES. 

by  her  loving  father,  and  almost  smothered 
with  kisses. 

"  Is  that  you,  Edward  ?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Nicholson  calling 
from  one  of  the  upper  rooms. 

The  response  of  her  husband  brought  Mrs. 
Nicholson  down  with  quickly-moving  feet.  She 
found  him  just  inside  of  the  'parlor  door,  with 
the  happy  little  May  in  his  arms,  looking  very 
cheerful  and  utterly  unconscious  of  any  ap 
proaching  storm. 

"Just  to  think  of  it!"  said  Mrs.  Nicholson, 
going  off  at  once  in  an  excited  tone  of  voice ; 
"  Mrs.  Blackwell  never  sent  that  basque  pattern, 
and  Margaret,  after  waiting  here  for  several 
hours,  went  away  without  touching  the  garment 
she  came  expressly  to  make." 

"  I  declare  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Nicholson.  "  Now, 
isn't  that  too  bad  !" 

"  Isn't  what  too  bad  ?  You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  you  didn't  call  at  Mrs.  Black- 
well's  ?" 

There  was  an  outflashing  of  indignation 
from  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Nicholson  at  the  very 
thought. 

"I  do  mean  to  say  that  very  thing!"  replied 


LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES.  139 

Mr.  Nicholson,  with  some  penitence  of  manner. 
"  It  is  all  my  fault.  What  could  I  have  been 
thinking  about?  I'm  very  sorry  indeed!" 

"  Sorry  don't  mend  the  matter !"  retorted 
Mrs.  Nicholson.  "  It's  a  shame  for  you  to  do 
so !  Here  I've  had  Margaret  waiting  nearly 
all  day  without  being  able  to  take  a  single  stitch 
in  my  basque,  which  I  expected  to  wear  to 
morrow,  and  all  because  you  did  not  choose 
to  take  the  trouble  to  stop  at  Mrs.  Black- 
well's  and  ask  her  to  send  home  the  pattern 
I  lent  her." 

"  Don't  say  '  didn't  choose,'  my  dear."  Mr. 
Nicholson's  countenance  changed. 

"  It  is  just  what  I  do  say,  and  what  I  mean," 
answered  Mrs.  Nicholson  with  blinding  indigna 
tion.  "  If  you  had  cared  a  particle  about  my 
comfort  or  convenience,  or  had  possessed  the 
smallest  inclination  to  obey  me,  you  never 
would  have  neglected  that  small  request.  I 
have  cause  to  be  angry !" 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Nicholson. 

"Oh,  don't  say  sorry  again!"  Mrs.  Nicholson 
interrupted.  "  I  hate  the  word,  and  have  no 
faith  in  it.  Sorry  !" 

Little  May,  with  a  half-frightened  look,  drew 


140  LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES. 

her  arms  tightly  around  her  father's  neck,  and 
laid  her  head  down  upon  his  bosom. 

For  some  moments  longer  the  indignant 
woman  stormed,  and  then,  as  there  was  no  re 
action  from  her  husband  to  keep  alive  the  tur 
bulent  spirit  that  possessed  her,  anger  wasted 
its  strength  down  to  feebleness  and  silence. 

The  hush  of  sadness  followed,  as  in  all  such 
cases,  and  tears  succeeded  to  passion.  Mrs. 
Nicholson,  after  having  poured  out  her  vials  of 
wrath,  felt  more  unhappy  than  while  bottling  up 
her  indignation.  Not  a  word  of  angry  retort 
had  passed  her  husband's  lips ;  she  would  have 
felt  better  if  he  had  betrayed  some  darker 
shades  of  feeling,  and  thus  brought  himself 
down  nearer  to  the  level  upon  which  she  had 
descended.  But  he  only  remained  passive, 
with  his  loving  little  May  clinging  to  his  neck. 

At  tea-time  but  few  words  were  exchanged 

by  husband  and   wife.      The   cloud   on    May's 

spirits  had  nearly  passed  over,  and  she  chatted 

'away,   and   asked   her  usual    score   of  childish 

questions. 

After  tea  the  gas  was  lighted  above  the  cen 
tre-table  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Mrs.  Nicholson 
sat  down  with  her  work-basket. 


LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES.  14! 

Little  May  had  a  box  of  painted  paper  toys, 
and  amused  herself  with  these,,  talking  to  her 
father  about  them,  and  enjoying  the  interest  he 
seemed  to  take  in  the  curious  figures  they  ex 
hibited. 

Very  few  words  had  been  addressed  by  Mrs. 
Nicholson  to  her  husband  since  they  left  the 
tea-table.  What  she  said  was  of  but  small 
moment,  but  the  tones  of  her  voice  were  sub 
dued  and  timid,  showing  repentance  for  the 
harsh  words  she  had  used  and  a  changed  state 
of  feeling. 

"What  a  funny-looking  old  woman!"  said 
little  May  to  her  father,  laughing  suddenly,  in  a 
merry  voice,  as  she  held  out  for  his  examination 
one  of  the  pictures.  Then,  as  if  a  new  thought 
had  crossed  her  mind,  she  left  her  chair,  and 
climbing  into  her  mother's  lap,  commenced  a 
close  examination  of  her  face.  With  eyes  and 
fingers  she  searched  it  all  over  in  so  curious  a 
way  that  both  father  and  mother  were  amused 
as  well  as  interested. 

"What  are  you  looking  for,  pet?"  inquired 
the  latter. 

The  question  seemed  a  little  to  confuse  the 
child,  and  she  left  the  mother's  lap  and  resumed 


142  LOOKING  FOR    WRINKLES. 

her  place  at  the  table  with  a  perceptibly  height 
ened  color. 

"Say,  darling,  what  were  you  looking  for  in 
my  face?" 

"  For  a  wrinkle,"  answered  little  innocence, 
smiling,  yet  flushing  to  a  deeper  crimson. 

"A  wrinkle!"  The  hand  of  Mrs.  Nicholson 
passed  with  an  involuntary  movement  over  her 
face. 

"A  wrinkle!"  Mr.  Nicholson  laughed  out 
aloud.  "  What  does  little  puss  mean  ?" 

Little  puss,  as  her  father  often  called  her,  now 
threw  an  arch  look  upon  the  mother,  and  said : 

"  Don't  you  know  what  Aunt  Mary  read  in 
the  paper  yesterday  ?" 

"  No,  dear ;  what  was  it  ?" 

"  Why,  that  a  wife  gets  a  new  wrinkle  in  her 
face  every  time  she  scolds  her  husband.  And  I 
wanted  to  see — " 

The  child's  voice  was  lost  in  the  merry  laugh 
that  rang  from  her  father's  lips  as  he  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  bore  her  with  a  triumphant  air 
around  the  room. 

"  Well,  pet,"  he  said  as  his  merriment  sub 
sided,  "  did  you  find  a  new  wrinkle  ?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  Mrs.  Nicholson  was 


LOOKING   FOR    WRINKLES.  143 

fluttered,  and  her  face  became  all  aglow  from  a 
quicker  heart-beat.  But  her  perception  of  the 
ludicrous  was  strong,  and  her  good  sense  a  bal 
ancing  quality,  and  she  quickly  joined  in  the 
merry  laugh  that  was  all  at  her  expense. 

"  No,  there  isn't  a  single  wrinkle  in  her  face," 
answered  May,  positively. 

"  Nor  shall  one  be  seen  there  for  twenty  years 
to  come,"  said  Mrs.  Nicholson,  throwing  a  tender 
look  upon  her  husband,  "  if  no  other  cause 
should  produce  them." 

May's  bedtime  had  come,  and  the  child  was 
borne  away  by  her  mother,  who  gave  her  many 
loving  kisses  ere  she  left  her  alone  with  the 
angels  who  watch  over  sleeping  children. 

She  said  nothing  about  the  wrinkles  as  she 
rejoined  her  husband,  but  there  were  merry 
twinkles  in  both  their  eyes  and  right  feelings  in 
both  their  hearts. 

Mrs.  Nicholson,  who  is  a  handsome  woman 
and  just  a  little  vain  of  her  beauty,  has  quite 
reformed  her  ways  in  the  matter  of  scolding  her 
husband.  There  are  dangers  attending  that 
peculiar  domestic  recreation  that  she  is  unwill 
ing  to  encounter. 


XI. 

A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

|Y  friend  Wilkins  married  a  sweet 
young  girl  of  a  quiet,  amiable  dispo 
sition,  but  in  no  way  skilled  in  those 
domestic  arts  without  a  knowledge  of  which  the 
wife's  duties  are  always  felt  to  be  hard  in  the 
beginning.  He  was  the  envy  of  more  than  one 
who  had  aspired  to  the  possession  of  her  hand. 
I  knew  him  to  be  industrious,  intelligent  and 
kind-hearted,  and  I  felt  sure  that  he  had  taken 
a  life-companion  who  would  be  faithful  and  lov 
ing.  The  promise  was  bright  enough  to  war 
rant  a  prophecy  of  more  than  ordinary  happi 
ness. 

They  removed  to  another  city.  Ten  years 
afterward,  in  passing  through  that  city,  I  called 
upon  Wilkins,  who  met  me  with  the  old,  frank 
cordiality.  Eyes  and  face  were  in  a  glow  of 
pleasure  when,  still  grasping  his  hand,  I  inquired 

144 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE.  145 

after  his  wife.  His  countenance  changed  in 
stantly. 

"  Poor  Mary !"  he  said  in  a  sad,  discouraged 
way.  "  She  has  no  health." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  was  my  natural  response. 

"Sickness  and  the  loss  of  two  of  our  chil 
dren  have  so  worn  down  body  and  mind  that 
she  is  now  but  a  shadow  of  her  former  self. 
Worst  of  all,  her  nerves  are  completely  shat 
tered.  But  you  must  see  her.  To  meet  an  old 
friend  will  do  her  good.  You  will  take  tea  with 
us  and  spend  the  evening?" 

I  assented,  and  then  made  farther  inquiries 
about  his  family  and  worldly  condition.  His 
story  was  not  a  very  bright  one.  The  birth  of 
their  first  child  was  followed  by  a  prostrating 
sickness  which  brought  the  young  mother  to  the 
utmost  verge  of  life. 

"  She  has  never  had  good  health  since,"  said 
Wilkins  in  a  depressed  voice.  "  My  income 
was  small,  and  we  could  not  afford  the  amount 
of  household  assistance  in  the  beginning  that 
she  really  required,  and  so  everything  was 
against  her  restoration  to  sound  health.  Chil 
dren  came  rapidly,  bringing  with  them  more 
exhausting  cares.  And  the  death  of  two  of  our 

13  K 


146  A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

little  ones  to  which  I  have  referred  seemed  to 
complete  the  work  of  ruin.  She  is  now  a  hope 
less  invalid,  a  poor,  weak,  nervous,  unhappy 
creature,  a  mere  wreck  of  what  you  saw  ten 
years  ago,  moving  like  a  tearful  ghost  through 
her  daily -round  of  duties,  and  only  kept  alive 
by  the  constant  and  careful  attention  of  a  phy 
sician.  I  don't  think  the  doctor  has  been  out 
of  my  house  for  two  weeks  at  a  time  for  six 
years,  and  I'm  sure  has  received  more  than  fif 
teen  hundred  dollars  of  my  money  in  that  time. 
The  fact  is,  what  with  doctors  bills,  nurses, 
medicines  and  the  hundred  nameless  expenses 
a  sick  and  nervous  wife  entails  upon  a  man,  my 
fortunes  have  been  marred.  They  keep  me 
poor." 

Wilkins  spoke  in  a  fretful  voice.  It  was 
plain  that  he  had  grown  impatient  under  the 
trials  to  which  the  bad  health  of  his  wife  had 
exposed  him. 

I  called  at  his  store  again  toward  evening, 
and  went  home  with  him.  Had  I  met  Mrs. 
Wilkins  in  the  street,  I  would  not  have  recog 
nized  in  her  the  happy  bride  who,  ten  years 
before,  blushing  in  beauty,  I  had  seen  giving 
her  hand  in  a  life-partnership,  with  such  loving 


A   NERVOUS   WIFE.  147 

confidence  in  the  future,  to  the  husband  of  her 
choice.  Her  countenance  was  wan  and  wasted, 
all  the  beautifully  rounded  outlines  gone;  her 
eyes,  deeply  sunken,  were  languid  almost  to 
indifference;  her  hair,  once  richly  luxuriant,  had 
fallen  off,  until  scarce  half  of  it  remained,  and 
that  looked  dry  and  crisp,  with  here  and  there  a 
premature  line  of  gray.  She  stooped  slightly 
and  her  motions  were  lifeless. 

A  faint  smile  parted  her  lips  as  I  grasped  her 
hand  with  all  the  warmth  of  a  genuine  friendly 
interest.  But  it  faded  almost  as  soon  as  it  was 
born.  I  tried  to  talk  with  her  in  a  cheerful 
strain,  and  did  succeed  in  awakening  a  brief 
interest  in  the  olden  time.  But  the  present 
was  too  painfully  real  a  thing :  it  would  not  let 
her  thoughts  indulge  in  pleasant  fancies.  I 
could  not  help  asking  about  herself  and  her 
children,  and  this  turned  the  current  of  her 
feelings  into  its  wonted  channel,  and  I  listened 
to  her  sad  heart-stories  and  painful  experiences 
in  sickness  until  my  own  feelings  were  deeply 
shadowed.  I  pitied  her.  What  a  .sombre, 
suffering  life  had  been  hers!  Into  what  a' world 
of  misery  instead  of  happiness  had  marriage 
translated  her ! 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

As  she  talked  I  observed  her  husband  care 
fully.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  but  little  sym 
pathy  with  his  wife's  state  of  feeling.  He  was 
a  sufferer  with  her,  though  in  a  lighter  degree, 
and  as  his  sufferings  originated  in  her,  there 
was  plainly  a  lack  of  kindly  patience  toward  his 
companion.  Several  times  he  interrupted  her, 
trying  to  draw  the  conversation  into  another 
channel,  and  once  or  twice  he  threw  in  depre 
ciating  sentences,  as  if  she  were  exaggerating 
the  unhappy  story  of  her  life. 

I  learned  that  Mrs.  Wilkins  rarely,  if  ever, 
went  out  of  her  own  house.  Her  duties  were 
very  arduous,  and  her  ability,  from  ill  health, 
small.  Every  day  she  worked  to  bodily  ex 
haustion,  and  usually  in  pain.  There  was  no 
recreation  of  any  kind,  bodily  or  mental.  It 
was  a  living  death.  No  wonder  she  was  a 
drooping,  wretched,  nervous  woman. 

On  the  next  day,  having  thought  the  matter 
over,  I  called  to  see  my  friend  at  his  store,  my 
mind  made  up  to  have  a  plain  talk  with  him.  I 
referred  to  his  wife,  expressing  in  regard  to  her 
my  earnest  sympathy. 

"Poor  Mary!"  he  replied;  "her  case  is  hope 
less,  and  mine  too,  I  fear." 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE.  149 

"  While  there's  life  there's  hope,"  said  I,  using 
the  physician's  half-despairing  axiom. 

He  regarded  me  a  little  curiously. 

"  How  often  do  you  take  her  out  riding  ?"  I 
inquired. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Can't  afford  carriage- 
hire  ;  much  as  I  can  do  to  pay  the  doctor.  No, 
no,  neither  of  us  has  time  or  money  to  spend 
for  riding  out." 

"  Change  and  fresh  air  you  will  find  better 
and  cheaper  medicine  than  doctor's  stuff.  Do 
you  take  her  to  the  seashore  once  a  year,  or 
to  the  springs,  or  the  mountains  ?" 

"You  are  jesting,"  he  replied,  with  the  air 
of  one  who  felt  that  an  undue  liberty  had  been 
taken. 

"  Far  from  it,  my  friend,"  I  answered,  serious 
ly.  "  I  feel  too  warm  an  interest  in  you  to  jest 
on  a  subject  like  this." 

"The  seashore,  the  springs,*  the  mountains, 
are  summer  luxuries  beyond  the  reach  of  our 
ability."  He  spoke  sadly. 

"  Do  not  name  them  as  luxuries  in  your  case. 
If  the  enervated  votary  of  pleasure  and  fashion 
needs  them  for  recreation  and  to  impart  a  new 
zest  to  the  year's  succeeding  round  of  gay  exist- 


13  * 


ISO  A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

ence,  how  much  more  essential  are  they  for  the 
sick,  the  nervous,  the  exhausted  toiler  in  life's 
field  of  earnest  labor!  I  fear,  my  friend,  that 
you  have  not  thought  wisely  of  your  wife's  true 
position — that  in  some  sense  you  are  to  blame 
for  her  present  ill  health  and  state  of  mental 
depression." 

"  How  ?"     Wilkins  looked  surprised. 

"  The  human  soul,"  I  answered,  "  is  not  a 
piece  of  senseless  machinery,  not  made  up  of  a 
series  of  iron  wheels  that  can  do  their  work  as 
well  in  the  dark  underground  chamber  as  in  the 
broad  daylight.  Even  the  flower  must  have 
change — air,  sunlight,  morning,  evening  and  the 
advancing  seasons — for  its  healthy  growth  and 
maturity.  But  the  human  soul  is  of  higher  or 
ganization,  and  of  multitudinous  wants  com 
pared  with  the  flower.  Shut  up  the  flower  from 
the  warm  sun  and  the  refreshing  air,  and  will  it 
not  grow  sickly — nay,  will  it  not  fade,  wither 
and  die?  You  are  treating  your  wife  with  less 
consideration  than  you  would  treat  a  house- 
plant.  No  wonder  that  she  is  dying  daily." 

Wilkins  really  looked  amazed,  and  I  was  for 
a  little  while  in  doubt  whether  he  were  offended 
at  my  freedom  or  astounded  at  his  own  blind- 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE.  15 1 

ness  touching  the  nature  and  wants  of  the  hu 
man  soul  he  had  adjoined  in  a  life-companion 
ship  with  his  own. 

"  Nature's  two  best  physicians,"  I  went  on, 
"  are  pure  air  and  exercise.  And  what  is  better, 
they  charge  nothing  for  attendance." 

"To  a  large  part  of  mankind,"  answered 
Wilkins,  "  time  is  money.  It  is  so  in  our  case." 

"Don't  make  that  too  positive  a  conclusion. 
Increase  the  strength  and  you  diminish  the 
hours  of  labor — nay,  more,  you  remove  from 
them  the  cause  of  extreme  exhaustion.  My 
word  for  it,  if  you  had  spent  a  hundred  dollars 
a  year  in  giving  your  wife  change  of  scene,  sea 
bathing  and  mental  as  well  as  bodily  recreation, 
your  doctor's  bill  would  have  been  reduced  by 
more  than  that  amount.  How  often  do  you 
take  her  to  concerts  or  other  places  of  "public 
amusement?" 

"  We  haven't  been  to  a  concert  for  five 
years,"  said  he. 

"  And  yet  I  remember  that  she  was  passion 
ately  fond  of  music." 

"We  can't  afford  it,"  remarked  Wilkins, 
gloomily. 

"  Better   go    without    a    dinner   occasionally. 


152  A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

Health  of  the  soul  is  quite  as  essential  as  health 
of  the  body.  If  you  starve  the  former,  what  is 
there  in  mere  eating  and  drinking  worth  living 
for?" 

"  Mary  wouldn't  go  if  I  were  to  purchase 
tickets.  She  has  housed  herself  so  long  that 
she  has  no  desire  to  step  across  the  threshold 
of  her  prison-house." 

"  For  which,  speaking  frankly,  and  to  an  old 
friend,  you  are,  in  a  great  measure,  to  blame. 
And  unless  you  at  once  and  with  a  purpose 
not  to  be  set  aside  by  first  difficulties  open 
wide  the  doors  of  this  prison-house,  and  actu 
ally  compel  the  drooping  prisoner  to  go  forth, 
a  few  years  will  close  up  the  history  of  a 
wretched  life." 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "I  can  feel  the  force  of  what 
you  say  !  But  how  and  where  to  begin  ?  That 
is  the  question." 

"  I  notice,"  was  my  reply,  "  that  Herz,  the 
celebrated  composer  and  pianist,  is  in  your  city, 
and  will  give,  this  evening,  one  of  his  concerts. 
Take  her  to  hear  him." 

The  eyes  of  Wilkins  dropped  to  the  floor.  I 
saw  what  was  in  his  mind.  The  tickets  were 
one  dollar  each,  and  the  expense,  therefore, 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE.  153 

larger  than  he  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  incur 
for  a  simple  amusement.  He  had  too  many 
demands  for  dollars  in  other  and  more  import 
ant  directions. 

"  I  am  going  to  invite  her,"  said  I,  "  and  I 
don't  believe  she  will  refuse  me." 

"  I'm  sure  she  will  not  go."  Wilkins  was 
quite  positive. 

"We'll  see.  You  will  take  a  note  of  invita 
tion  from  me  at  dinner-time.  I  will  enclose 
tickets  for  you  both,  and  say  that  I  will  call  at 
tea-time  and  make  one  of  the  company  at  the 
concert." 

Wilkins  was  incredulous,  and  half  opposed 
me,  but  my  interest  in  his  unhappy  wife  was 
too  strong,  and  I  resolved  to  have  my  own  way. 
The  tickets  and  invitation  were  accordingly 
sent. 

I  called  at  my  friend's  store,  late  in  the  after 
noon,  to  go  home  with  him. 

"Well,"  said  I,  cheerfully,  "what  word  from 
your  good  wife  ?  Will  she  be  ready  for  the 
concert?" 

"I'm  afraid  not."  •  Wilkins  shook  his  head 
and  looked  gloomy. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?" 


154  A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

"That  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  go  out; 
that  she  couldn't  leave  the  children ;  and,  finally, 
after  I  had  met  every  objection  with  a  reason 
that  could  not  be  gainsaid,  she  declared  that  she 
didn't  feel  like  going  and  couldn't  think  of  it." 

"  The  ice  is  very  solid  and  hard  to  break 
through."  I  smiled  as  I  spoke.  "It  is  that 
want  of  inclination  which  must  be  overcome. 
She'll  go  if  we  insist  upon  it." 

But  Wilkins  was  of  a  different  opinion.  "I 
know  her  a  great  deal  better  than  you  do,"  was 
his  answer. 

At  tea-time  I  went  home  with  him.  There 
was  a  change  in  Mrs.  Wilkins :  a  glance  re 
vealed  this.  The  languor  and  exhaustion  so 
painfully  apparent  on  the  previous  evening 
were  scarcely  visible.  Her  eyes  were  brighter, 
her  countenance  more  elevated,  her  lips  had  a 
firmer  outline.  I  saw  that  some  attention  had 
been  given  to  her  dress,  and,  though  not  in 
concert  trim,  it  was  plain  enough  that  it  would 
not  take  her  a  very  great  while  to  be  in  pre 
sentable  condition. 

Wilkins  was  in  error.  His  wife  did  go  to  the 
concert,  and  surprised  both  him  and  herself  by 
the  amount  of  pleasure  she  received  from  the 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE.  155 

exquisite  performance  of  Herz.  Indeed,  she 
expressed  her  satisfaction  in  lively  terms  and 
with  a  glowing  face  in  the  intervals  of  many  of 
the  pieces. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Wilkins?"  I  asked  of  my 
friend  as  I  entered  his  place  of  business  on  the 
next  day. 

"  Better  than  for  many  months,  I  am  pleased 
to  say,"  was  his  answer.  "  She  seemed,  this 
morning,  almost  another  woman.  That  music 
was  like  an  elixir  to  her  soul." 

"  I  had  faith  in  it,"  said  I.  "  Depend  upon  it, 
Wilkins,  you  have  been  consenting  to  your 
wife's  death  by  murder  and  suicide — murder  on 
your  part  and  suicide  on  hers.  My  next  rec 
ommendation  is  Cape  May.  Give  up  your 
business  for  a  week,  and  borrow  the  money  to 
pay  expenses  if  you  haven't  the  ready  cash  on 
hand,  but  take  your  wife  to  Cape  May  imme 
diately.  It  will  not  cost  half  as  much  as  her 
funeral.  Sea  air,  sea  bathing  and  a  sight  of  old 
Ocean  will  put  new  life  into  her  veins." 

"  She  can't  possibly  leave  home.  We  have 
too  many  young  children." 

"She'll  have  to  leave  home,  and  her  young 
children  too,  for  ever,  if  you  don't  do  something 


156  A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

to  save  her."  I  spoke  with  some  feeling,  for  I 
was  a  little  provoked  at  my  friend's  inclination 
to  throw  difficulties  in  the  way.  "Just  make  up 
your  mind  that  the  thing  has  to  be  done,  and 
I'll  answer  for  your  wife.  The  fact  is,  it's  my 
opinion  that  she'll  say  '  Yes '  on  the  first  propo 
sition." 

And  so  she  did.  A  little  management  was 
practiced.  I  accepted  another  invitation  to  tea, 
and  during  the  evening  gave  as  graphic  a  de 
scription  as  was  in  my  power  of  the  novelty, 
excitement  and  wonderfully  beneficial  effects  of 
a  week  at  the  seashore.  My  own  experience 
was  quite  to  the  point,  having  regained  strength 
almost  by  magic  after  a  long  period  of  extreme 
nervous  exhaustion. 

"You  must  take  your  wife  to  the  seashore. 
It  is  just  what  she  wants,"  said  I,  after  the  way 
had  been  fully  prepared. 

Wilkins  followed  up  with  such  a  hearty  acqui 
escence  that  the  point  was  carried  under  scarcely 
an  appearance  of  objection.  Difficulties  were, 
of  course,  suggested,  but  these  were  pro 
nounced  of  such  slender  importance  that  they 
were  waived  almost  as  soon  as  presented.  Two 
days  afterward  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing- 


A_  NERVOUS   WIFE.  157 

them  off  in  the  steamboat.  As  I  shook  hands 
with  them  at  parting,  I  could  see  in  the  counte 
nance  of  Mrs.  Wilkins  some  reviving  traces  of 
her  old  girlish  beauty  and  the  rekindling  in  her 
eyes  of  the  light  of  other  days. 

A  year  afterward,  in  passing  through  the 
city,  I  made  it  my  business  to  visit  my  old  ac 
quaintance.  He  received  me  with  a  warmth  of 
manner  and  cheerfulness  of  spirit  which  satis 
fied  me  that  his  state  of  mind  had  considerably 
improved. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Wilkins  ?"  I  made  almost  im 
mediate  inquiry. 

A  broad  smile  went  over  his  face  as  he  re 
plied  :  "  A  thousand  per  cent,  better  than  when 
you  saw  her  a  year  ago." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so.  How 
did  the  Cape  May  prescription  answer?" 

"  Admirably.  It  worked  like  a  charm.  Mary 
came  back  another  woman.  It  was  to  her  al 
most  like  discovering  the  fountain  of  eternal 
youth.  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  any  one." 

"  Didn't  she  fall  back  into  old  habits  of  mind 
and  body  after  her  return  to  the  city?" 

"No." 

"  How  did  you  prevent  this  ?"  I  inquired. 

14 


158  A   NERVOUS    WIFE. 

"  By  acting  on  the  hint  you  gave.  I  hired  a 
wagon  for  an  afternoon  once  a  week  while  the 
pleasant  weather  lasted,  and  showed  her  all  the 
fine  scenery  within  ten  miles  of  the  city.  It 
cost  me  two  dollars  each  time,  but  it  was 
cheaper  than  paying  the  doctor,  and  the  med 
icine  cured  more  radically.  You  can't  imagine 
what  a  change  in  her  feelings  took  place. 
Nothing  outside  of  the  narrow  circle  of  home 
interested  her  before :  thought  seemed  asleep 
or  palsied;  but  now  she  takes  an  interest  in 
everything.  Her  soul  has  awakened  from  its 
dead  torpor." 

"  Was  it  not  starved  into  more  than  infantile 
weakness  ?"  I  remarked. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "  The 
mind  must  have  its  appropriate  food  as  well  as 
the  body." 

"  Nothing  is  truer  than  that,"  I  replied.  "  And 
like  the  body,  it  must  have  the  alternations  of 
shade  and  sunshine,  fresh  air  and  exercise.  It 
must  have  change  and  recreation  as  well  as 
seasons  of  labor.  Without  these,  mental  health 
is  impossible,  and  without  mental  health  there 
can  be  no  true  bodily  health." 

Husbands,  I  fear,  are  not  thoughtful  enough 


A   NERVOUS    WIFE.  159 

about  their  wives  in  this  particular.  I  am  very 
certain  if  every  toiling  housekeeper  and  worn- 
down,  nervous,  exhausted  mother  whose  pale 
face  is  hardly  ever  seen  beyond  the  portals  of 
her  own  door  were  forced  abroad  occasionally 
into  the  social  world — if  she  would  not  go  will 
ingly — and  taken  yearly  to  the  springs,  the  sea 
shore  or  the  mountains  for  a  few  weeks,  that 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  wives  and  mothers 
who  are  now  sickly,  nervous  and  unhappy 
would  be  in  the  enjoyment  of  good  health  and 
cheerful  spirits,  giving  light  to  their  homes  and 
happiness  to  the  hearts  of  their  husbands. 

Try  the  prescription,  ye  men  with  sickly,  toil 
ing,  exhausted  wives  whose  pale  faces  haunt 
your  homes  like  ghosts  of  former  blessings. 
Pity  them  wisely  and  hold  them  back  while  you 
may  from  the  low  resting-places  under  the  green 
turf  toward  which  they  are  descending  with 
rapid  feet. 


mmiikw 


.- .-  ••;•.•--,•  ^-^ . VV^  T 


XII. 

HUSBAND. 

]HANK  you!"  What  a  musical  ring 
was  in  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Archer !  what 
a  pleasant  light  shone  in  her  eyes ! 
She  had  dropped  a  glove,  which  a  gentleman 
had  lifted  from  the  floor  and  placed  in  her 
hand. 

Mr.  Archer,  the  lady's  husband,  saw  the  little 
act  of  courtesy  and  noticed  its  reward.  He 
would  have  given  almost  anything  for  just  such 
a  musical  "  Thank  you  !"  for  as  bright  a  glance 
as  she  had  thrown  upon  a  stranger.  Once, 
tones  and  glances  like  these  had  been  his  re 
ward  for  any  little  attentions  he  might  happen 
to  offer;  now,  all  the  small  courtesies  of  life 
were  withdrawn,  and  no  matter  what  the  act 
or  its  quality,  his  wife  received  it  with  a  cold 
indifference  singularly  in  contrast  with  her 
manner  toward  other  men. 

160 


ONLY  A   HUSBAND.  l6l 

Was  it  a  defect  of  love  ?  Did  Mrs.  Archer 
really  think  more  highly  of  other  men  who 
showed  her  polite  attentions  than  she  did  of 
her  husband?  Sometimes  a  chafed  feeling 
of  impatience,  sometimes  of  jealousy,  and 
sometimes  of  mournful  regret  for  sunnier 
days  in  the  far-away  past,  would  trouble  the 
husband  sorely.  But  these  were  pushed  aside 
or  suffered  to  die  for  lack  of  aliment,  and  the 
dull,  cold  routine  of  every-day  life  permitted  to 
have  its  usual  course. 

On  the  occasion  referred  to  above,  Mr.  Archer 
and  his  wife  were  spending  an  evening  at  the 
house  of  a  friend  where  company  had  been 
invited.  For  days  previously  the  countenance 
of  Mrs.  Archer  had  worn  its  usual  dead  calm, 
its  accustomed  placidity,  its  matter-of-course 
aspect.  She  had  talked  with  her  husband,  in  a 
kind  of  dead-level  tone  and  manner,  on  all  sub 
jects  that  happened  to  come  up,  whether  of 
first  or  third  importance.  Or  if  interest  hap 
pened  to  rise  into  anything  approaching  enthu 
siasm,  it  was  accompanied  by  something  of 
sharpness  that  left  on  the  mind  of  Mr.  Archer 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  as  if  he  were  blamed 
for  something.  And  this  had  been  the  wife's 


14* 


1 62  ONLY  A   HUSBAND. 

aspect  even  after  she  had  donned  her  company 
attire,  and  up  to  the  moment  when  she  made 
her  appearance  among  the  guests  of  the  friend 
to  whose  house  she  brought,-tied  up,  as  it  were, 
in  a  closely-compacted  'bundle,  her  smiles  and 
courtesies  for  public  dispensation. 

As  he  had  noticed  on  many  previous  occa 
sions,  so  did  Mr.  Archer  notice  on  this,  the. 
remarkable  difference  between  his  wife's  home 
and  company  manners — between  her  treatment 
of  her  husband  and  her  treatment  of  other 
gentlemen  who  happened  to  enter  into  con 
versation  with  her  or  offer  any  polite  atten 
tion.  The  answer  to  their  words  always  went 
forth  from  lips  wreathed  with  smiles  and  eyes 
sparkling  with  pleasure ;  to  his  words  from  a 
cold,  placid  mouth,  and  with  half-indifferent  or 
averted  glances.  And  yet  Mrs.  Archer  was  a 
faithful  wife  in  all  her  dutiful  relations,  and  in 
her  heart  a  loving  wife  to  her  husband.  If 
smiles  did  not  play  in  sunny  circles  over  her 
countenance  as  in  former  times,  she  made  the 
household  smile  with  order  and  comfort  ar 
ranged  and  secured  by  her  ever-busy  hands. 
Her  thoughts  were  no  wandering  truants  to 
other  and  forbidden  fields,  but  home-guests, 


ONLY  A   HUSBAND.  163 

nor  were  they  busy  for  herself,  but  for  the 
husband  and  children  in  whom  her  own  life 
was  bound  up.  It  was  not  that  love  for  her 
husband  had  grown  dull — answering  not  as 
mirror  answereth  to  face — that  her  counte 
nance  did  not  light  up  at  his  coming,  that  she 
did  not  meet  his  words  and  attentions  with 
smiling  glances.  Had  she  not  given  him  her 
heart  when  she  gave  him  her  hand  ? — had  she 
not  promised  to  be  a  faithful  wife?  Was 
she  not  true  in  all  of  her  relations?  What 
more  was  required  of  her  ?  It  never  entered 
into  her  thoughts  that  her  husband  was 
weak  enough  to  desire  a  daily  repetition  of 
the  love-glances  with  which,  in  the  season  of 
young  love's  ardor,  her  eyes  were  ever  beam 
ing  when  they  turned  upon  his  face. 

And  yet  it  was  even  so.  It  was  because  he 
hoped  to  live  all  his  after-life  in  the  warmth  of 
those  glances  that  he  had  wooed  and  won  her 
in  the  bright  days  of  her  young  womanhood. 
And  when  he  saw  the  light  growing  daily  dim 
mer  and  dimmer,  and  felt  its  genial  warmth 
diminishing,  a  shadow  fell  upon  his  spirit.  Very 
kind,  very  attentive,  the  husband  remained,  but 
his  wife  became  aware  of  a  certain  coldness 


164  ONLY  A   HUSBAND. 

toward  herself  that  was  far  from  being  as  pleas 
ant  as  the  lover-like  manner  with  which  he  had 
formerly  treated  her,  and  many  times  she 
sighed  for  the  tones  and  glances  she  saw  him 
give  to  other  ladies,  as  he  sighed  for  like  tokens 
of  interest  from  herself.  Both  were  in  error, 
and  both  in  a  certain  sense  to  blame. 

On  the  evening  referred  to,  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  manner  of  his  wife  to  himself  and  to 
other  men  who  showed  her  little  attentions  was 
felt  with  more  than  usual  distinctness  by  Mr. 
Archer.  He  was  not  jealous,  for  he  knew  the 
truth  of  her  character,  nor  offended,  but  hurt. 
Almost  any  price  would  he  have  paid  for  the 
bright  return  another  received  for  a  simple  act, 
the  double  of  which  on  his  part  would  scarcely 
receive  a  passing  notice. 

Not  long  after  this  Mr.  Archer  saw  his  wife 
drop  her  handkerchief.  Stepping  forward  from 
where  he  stood  talking  with  a  lady,  he  lifted  it 
from  the  floor  and  placed  it  in  her  hand.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  countenance,  but  she 
did  not  so  much  as  return  his  look  nor  make 
the  slightest  acknowledgment,  merely  receiving 
the  handkerchief  with  a  quiet  indifference  in 
striking  contrast  with  the  way  in  which  she  had 


ONL  Y  A#  HUSBAND.  165 

taken  the  glove  from  another's  hand.  Mr. 
Archer  was  disappointed.  The  drooping  flowers 
in  his  heart  were  pining  for  sunbeams,  and  he 
had  hoped  for  a  few  bright  rays.  But  they  were 
not  given. 

A  lady  to  whom  Mrs.  Archer  had  been  intro 
duced  that  evening,  and  who  was  a  stranger  to 
both  herself  and  husband,  sat  by  her  side. 
They  had  been  conversing  with  some  animation, 
and  were  interested  in  each -other.  This  lady 
was  struck  by  the  marked  difference  with  which 
Mrs.  Archer  received  these  two  slight  attentions 

o 

from  different  gentlemen.  She  had  observed 
the  polite  response  made  when  the  glove  was 
handed  to  its  owner,  and  was  pleased  with  the 
graceful  manner  of  her  new  acquaintance.  The 
cold,  almost  repulsive,  way  in  which  she  accept 
ed  the  handkerchief  was  therefore  noticed  the 
more  distinctly.  She  saw  that  the  individual 
who  presented  it  was  disappointed,  if  not  hurt. 
Her  inference  was  natural. 

"That  gentleman  is  no  favorite  of  yours," 
she  remarked. 

"What  gentleman?"  Mrs.  Archer  looked 
curious. 

"  He  who  lifted  your  handkerchief  just  now." 


1 66  "   ONLY  A   HUSBAND. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?"  There  was  a 
slightly  amused  expression  in  the  corners  of 
Mrs.  Archer's  mouth. 

"  You  treated  him  very  coldly,  almost  rudely, 
I  thought — pardon  me  for  saying  so :  quite  dif 
ferently  from  the  way  in  which  you  treated  the 
gentleman  who  picked  up  your  glove  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

A  smile  spread  over  the  countenance  of  Mrs. 
Archer. 

"  Oh,  he's  only  my  husband !"  she  made  an 
swer. 

"  The  one  who  lifted  the  glove  ?" 

"  No,  the  one  who  gave  me  my  handker 
chief." 

"Only  your  husband!" 

The  lady  spoke  in  a  tone  that  Mrs.  Archer 
could  not  help  feeling  as  a  rebuke. 

"  He's  my  husband,"  she  said,  "  and  doesn't 
expect  me  to  be  particularly  ceremonious.  He 
picked  up  my  handkerchief  as  a  thing  of  course. 
The  other  was  a  mere  acquaintance — half  a 
stranger,  in  fact — and  a  more  formal  acknow 
ledgment  of  his  polite  attention  could  not  have 
been  omitted  without  rudeness  or  a  want  of  re 
gard  for  etiquette." 


ONLY  A   HUSBAND.  l6? 

"  I  am  afraid,"  remarked  the  lady,  guardedly, 
so  as  not  to  give  offence,  "  that  some  of  us  are 
scarcely  just  to  our  husbands  in  this  matter  of 
exterior  courtesy.  I  know  that  I  have  not  been, 
and  a  lesson  I  once  received  will  never  be  for 
gotten." 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  Archer  turned  by  a  kind 
of  instinct  toward  her  husband.  He  was  stand 
ing  near  a  brilliant  gas-lamp,  the  light  of  which 
was  falling  clearly  on  his  face.  His  glance  was 
upon  the  floor.  There  was  a  shadow  on  his 
countenance  which  the  strong  light,  instead  of 
obliterating,  made  more  distinctly  visible — a 
look  of  disappointment  that  was  almost  sad. 

A  new  thought  flashed  into  the  mind  of  Mrs. 
Archer  and  touched  her  with  a  feeling  of  ten 
der  self-upbraiding.  Was  it  possible  that  her 
husband  had  felt  her  manner  as  cold  or  indif 
ferent?  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  noticed 
the  blandness  of  her  manner  toward  one  who 
was  but  little  less  than  a  stranger,  and  con 
trasted  it,  as  the  lady  had  done,  with  her  seem 
ing  indifference  to  himself?  Her  eyes  were  still 
on  his  face  when  he  lifted  his  own  from  the 
floor  and  turned  them  full  upon  her.  They 
were  dull  and  spiritless,  A  little  while  they 


1 68  ONL  Y  A  >  HUSBAND. 

lingered  upon  her,  and  then  moved  slowly 
away,  as  if  seeking  some  object  pleasanter  to 
look  upon.  For  some  time  Mrs.  Archer  con 
tinued  gazing  at  her  husband,  but  he  did  not 
look  toward  her  again.  She  sighed,  and  letting 
her  eyes  fall,  remained  lost  in  thought  for  some 
moments.  Then  turning  to  the  lady  who  sat 
by  her  side,  and  who  was  observing  her  closely, 
she  said,  with  a  smile  half  forced : 

"  You  have  set  me  to  thinking." 

"And  in  the  right  direction,  I  hope,"  was 
frankly  responded. 

"  I  think  so." 

Watching  for  a  good  opportunity,  when  she 
knew  her  husband  was  near  her  and  could  not 
help  noticing  the  fact,  she  purposely  disarranged 
a  light  scarf  that  was  laid  over  her  shoulders. 
Instantly  he  stepped  forward  and  drew  it  into 
place. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  she  said,  quickly,  a  smile 
on  her  lip  and  a  pleasant  light  in  her  eye.  They 
were  not  counterfeit,  but  real,  for  Mrs.  Archer 
truly  loved  her  husband,  and  was  pleased  with 
any  little  attention  at  home  or  abroad.  But  he 
being  "only  her  husband,"  she  had,  like  far  too 
many  others,  omitted  the  form  of  acknowledg- 


ONLY  A   HUSBAND.  169 

ment  because  he  must  know  that  the  feeling 
was  in  her  heart. 

What  a  change  came  instantly  into  her  hus 
band's  face  !  What  a  look  of  pleased  surprise, 
almost  grateful  in  its  expression !  Verily,  she 
had  her  reward !  How  tenderly  he  leaned 
toward  her !  and  what  a  new  meaning  was  in 
his  tones  as  he  remarked  on  some  topic  of  the 
hour!  And  did  not  her  heart  leap  up  at  these 
signs  of  the  affection  that  was  in  his  heart,  still 
warm  and  lover-like,  still  pleased  with  tokens 
of  kindness  and  ready  to  reward  them  twenty 
fold  ?  Away  back,  through  many  years,  her 
thoughts  went  to  the  May-time  of  their  young 
love,  when  they  lived  in  the  light  of  each  other's 
eyes  and  thought  no  music  as  sweet  as  the 
melody  of  each  other's  voices. 

The  time  seemed  long  to  Mrs.  Archer  that 
they  were  required  by  etiquette  to  remain,  for 
she  desired  to  be  alone  with  her  husband.  Not 
much  was  said  by  either  as  they  walked  home 
ward  that  night,  but  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Archer 
clung  with  a  closer  pressure  than  usual  to  the 
arm  of  her  husband,  and  the  arm  held  the  hand, 
with  a  returning  pressure,  firmly  against  a  heart 
that  beat  with  quicker  pulsations. 


15 


170  ONLY  A   HUSBAND. 

Both  time  and  place  were  soon  propitious. 
They  stood  in  their  own  chamber  looking  with 
a  new  expression  in  their  eyes  into  each  other's 
face. 

"Dear  husband!  I  love  you/and  I  am  proud 
of  you.  You  are.  not  like  other  men  !"  Mrs. 
Archer  drew  an  arm  around  his  neck  and  laid 
her  lips  upon  his  lips. 

"  God  bless  you  for  the  words  !"  he  answered, 
with  a  joyful  thrill  in  his  voice. 

"You  did  not  doubt  my  love?"  she  said,  in 
half  surprise. 

"  No,  no  !  But  words  and  tokens  of  love  are 
always  grateful.  You  are  dear  to  me  as  my 
life.  Let  us  keep  the  golden  links  that  bind 
our  hearts  together  bright  as  in  the  beginning, 
burnishing  them  daily  with  small,  sweet  courte 
sies.  Forgive  me  if  in  aught  I  have  shown 
coldness  or  indifference :  there  has  been  neither 
in  my  heart." 

Ever  after  the  golden  links  were  kept  bright, 
burnished  daily  by  the  small,  sweet  courtesies 
of  which  the  husband  had  spoken. 


XIII. 
THE  FIRST  SHADOW. 

|DA  was  a  bride.  Onward  through  a 
year  of  patient  waiting  had  she 
moved  toward  this  blessed  estate, 
all  her  thoughts  golden  ones,  all  her  fancies  ra 
diant  with  love  and  beauty.  And  now  she  was 
a  bride,  a  happy  bride.  He  who  had  won  her 
was  worthy  to  wear  her  as  a  crown.  Kind, 
honorable  and  gifted,  his  praise  was  on  the 
lips  of  all  men. 

Yes,  Ida  was  a  happy  bride.  It  was  the 
blooming,  fragrant  spring-time  of  her  life. 
Singing-birds  were  in  all  the  trees,  musical 
waters  gliding  through  the  peaceful  landscape, 
and  a  cloudless  sky  was  bending  over  all.  The 
blessedness  of  this  new  life  was  greater  than 
she  had  even  imagined  in  all  the  warmth  of  her 
maiden  fancies. 

A  moon  had  waxed  and  waned  since  the  lover 

171 


1/2  THE  FIRST  SHADOW. 

became  the  husband — a  moon  dropping  the 
sweets  of  Mount  Hybla.  It  was  evening,  and 
Ida  stood  by  the  window  looking  out  through 
the  dusky  air,  waiting  and  wishing  for  the  return 
of  her  husband,  who  was  later  than  usual  from 
his  home.  At  last  her  glad  eyes  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  well-known  form,  and  starting 
back  from  the  window,  she  went  with  springing 
steps  to  meet  him  at  the  door,  opening  it  ere 
his  hand  could  ring  the  bell. 

"  Dear  Edward  !"  What  a  gushing  love  was 
in  her  voice !  She  raised  her  lips  for  a  kiss, 
and  a  kiss  was  given.  But  somehow  its  warmth 
did  not  go  down  to  her  heart. 

"Are  you  not  well,  dear  ?"  she  asked,  tenderly, 
as  they  entered  their  pleasant  little  parlor,  and 
she  looked  into  his  face  and  tried  to  read  its 
expression,  but  the  twilight  was  too  deep. 

"  Quite  as  well  as  usual,  love."  The  voice  of 
her  husband  was  low  and  gentle,  but  it  had  a 
new  and  changed  sound  for  the  young  wife's 
ears — a  sound  that  made  her  heart  tremble. 
And  yet  his  arm  was  around  her,  and  he  held 
one  of  her  hands  tightly,  compressing  it  within 
his  own. 

It  grew  dark  in  the  room  before  the  gas 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  173 

lighted.  When  the  strong  rays  fell  suddenly 
upon  the  face  of  her  husband,  Ida  saw  a  change 
there  also.  It  was  clouded.  Not  heavily  clouded, 
but  still  in  shadow.  Steadily  and  earnestly 
she  looked  at  him,  until  he  turned  his  face  partly 
away  to  escape  the  searching  scrutiny. 

"You  are  not  well,  Edward."  Ida  looked 
serious,  almost  concerned. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself.     I'm  very  well." 

He  smiled  and  patted  her  cheek  playfully,  or 
rather  with  an  attempt  at  playfulness.  Ida  was 
not  deceived.  A  change  had  passed  over  her 
husband.  Something  was  wrong.  He  was  not 
what  he  had  been. 

In  due  time  tea  was  announced,  and  the  little 
family  of  two  gathered  around  the  table  in  the 
neat  breakfast-room. 

"  Burnt  toast  and  dish-water  tea,  as  usual !" 
These  were  the  first  words  spoken  by  the  young 
husband  after  sitting  down  to  the  .table,  and  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  uttered  left  Ida  in 
no  doubt  as  to  the  state  of  his  feelings.  How 
suddenly  was  the  fine  gold  dimmed ! 

A  few  hours  earlier  the  young  husband  had 
called  in  to  see  his  mother,  an  orderly,  indus 
trious  woman  and  a  notable  housekeeper.  As 


15* 


174  THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  * 

usual,  he  was  full  of  the  praise  of  his  beautiful 
young  wife,  in  whom  he  had  yet  seen  nothing  to 
blame,  nothing  below  perfection.  But  his  mo 
ther  had  looked  at  her  with  different  eyes.  Liv 
ing  in  the  world  was,  with  her,  no  holiday  affair, 
and  marriage  no  mere  honeymoon.  She  was 
too  serious  in  all  her  views  and  feelings  to  have 
much  patience  with  what  she  esteemed  a  mere 
play-day  life.  A  little  jealous  of  her  son's  affec 
tion  she  was  withal,  and  its  going  forth  to  an 
other  with  an  ardor  so  different  from  what  it  had 
ever  gone  forth  to  herself  made  her  feel  cold 
toward  the  dear  little  wife  of  Edward,  who  was 
its  favorite  object. 

"  It  is  time,"  she  said,  with  a  distance  of  man 
ner  that  surprised  her  son,  "  for  you  and  Ida  to 
be  a  little  serious.  The  honeymoon  is  over,  and 
the  quicker  you  come  down  to  sober  realities, 
the  better.  There  is  one  thing  about  Ida  that 
rather  disappoints  me." 

Edward  was  too  much  surprised  at  this  unex 
pected  announcement  to  speak.  His  mother 
went  on : 

"  She's  no  housekeeper — " 

"  She's  young,  mother.  She'll  learn,"  he  said, 
interrupting  her. 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  1/5 

"  She  had  no  right  to  marry  until  she  knew 
how  to  make  a  cup  of  tea!"  The  old  lady  spoke 
with  considerable  asperity. 

"Mother!" 

"  I  say  just  what  I  mean.  Not  a  single  cup 
of  tea  have  I  tasted  in  your  house  that  was  fit 
to  drink.  I  don't  know  how  you  can  put  up 
with  such  stuff.  You  wouldn't  haye  done  it  at 
my  table,  I'm  very  sure." 

"  Please,  mother,  don't  talk  so  any  more  about 
Ida !  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it." 

"  You  can  bear  to  hear  the  truth,  Edward.  I 
speak  for  Ida's  good,  and  your  own  too.  She  is 
a  wife  now,  not  a  mere  sweetheart.  And  she 
is  your  housekeeper  besides,  with  something 
more  to  do  and  care  for  than  dress,  music, 
party-going  and  enjoyment.  I  must  say,  as  I 
said  a  little  while  ago,  that  I  am  disappointed 
in  her.  What  are  girls  thinking  about  now-a- 
days  when  they  get  married?  Surely,  not  of 
their  husbands'  home-comforts." 

"  If  you  please,  mother,  we  will  change  the 
subject,"  said  the  young  man,  who  was  exceed 
ingly  pained  by  the  strong  language  he  had 
heard.  He  spoke  so  firmly  that  the  matter  was 
dropped,  and  not  again  alluded  to  at  that  time. 


1 76  THE  FIRST  SHADOW. 

We  have  now  an  explanation  of  the  change 
in  the  young  husband's  state  of  mind.  There 
were  some  truths  in  what  his  mother  had  said, 
and  this  made  it  so  much  the  harder  to  bear. 
The  first  shadow  had  fallen,  and  it  dimmed  the 
brightness  of  this  new  and  happy  life. 

Still  the  defects  of  Ida — very  small  to  his 
eyes,  even  after  they  were  pointed  out  by  his 
mother — were  things  of  no  moment.  He,  had 
not  intended  her  for  a  household  drudge.  Was 
she  not  loving-hearted,  accomplished  and  beau 
tiful  ?  True,  he  had  intended  her  for  the  pre 
siding  genius  of  his  home,  and  there  were 
sober,  matter-of-fact  things  to  be  done  in  all 
homes.  But  her  devotion  to  these  would  come 
in  good  time. 

How  Edward  came  to  speak  as  he  did  about 
the  tea  and  toast  was,  almost  on  the  instant  he 
had  given  utterance  to  his  words,  a  mystery  to 
himself.  He  regretted  the  start  he  gave  to 
his  young  wife,  and  trembled  for  the  effects  of 
his  unkindly  uttered  words.  He  would  have 
given  much  could  he  have  recalled  them.  But 
they  were  said  beyond  the  power  of  unsaying. 

The  reference  of  his  mother  to  the  indifferent 
tea  with  which  she  had  been  served  at  his  table 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW. 

had  not  only  mortified  him,  but  made  things  dis 
tinct  in  his  memory  which  before  were  only  seen 
dimly  and  as  matters  of  indifference.  Where 
all  was  so  bright,  why  should  he  turn  his  eyes 
upon  a  few  fragments  of  clouds  skirting  the  far 
horizon  ?  He  would  not  have  done  so  if  left  to 
himself.  The  clouds  might  have  spread  until 
very  much  larger  than  a  man's  hand  before 
their  murky  aspect  would  have  drawn  his  happy 
vision  from  the  all-pervading  brightness. 

Ida's  hand,  which  was  raising  a  cup  to  her 
lips,  fell  almost  as  suddenly  as  if  palsied ;  pale 
ness  overspread  her  countenance ;  her  lips  had 
a  motion  between  a  quiver  and  a  spasm.  From 
her  eyes,  which  seemed  bound  as  by  a  spell  to 
her  husband's  face,  tears  rolled  out  and  fell  in 
large  drops  over  her  cheeks. 

Never  before  since  Edward  had  looked  upon 
that  dear  young  face  had  he  seen  its  brightness 
so  veiled.  Never  before  had  a  word  of  his  been 
answered  by  anything  but  smiles  and  love  re 
sponses. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Edward."  How  the  sad,  tremulous 
voice  of  Ida  rebuked  the  young  husband's  un- 
kindness  !  "  It  shall  not  be  so  again." 

And  she  kept  her  word.     Suddenly  he  had 
M 


1^  THE  FIRST  SHADOW. 

awakened  her  from  a  bright,  dreamy  illusion. 
She  had  been  in"  a  kind  of  fairy-land.  By  an 
unlooked-for  shifting  of  scenery,  the  hard  every- 
day  working  world,  with  its  common  working- 
day  wants,  had  struck  with  an  unlovely  aspect 
upon  her  startled  vision,  the  jagged  edges  of 
the  real  wounding  painfully  her  soft  ideal.  But 
once  awakened  she  never  slept  again.  It  was 
the  first  shadow  that  fell  dimly  and  coldly  upon 
her  married  heart — the  first,  and  to  the  life-ex 
perienced  we  need  not  say  the  last. 

Very,  very  tenderly  spoken  were  all  the 
words  of  Edward  to  his  young  wife  during  the 
shadowed  evening  that  followed  this  first  dim 
ming  of  their  home-light.  And  Ida,  who  felt 
the  kindness  of  his  heart,-  tried  to  smile  and 
seem  as  of  old.  But  somehow  she  could  not 
force  into  existence  the  smiles  she  wished  to 
send  out  as  tokens  of  forgiveness.  Thoughts 
of  the  bad  tea  and  burnt  toast,  the  "  usual  " — 
ah !  there  lay  the  smart ! — evening  entertain 
ment  she  had  provided,  or  rather  suffered  to 
be  provided  by  unskillful  hands — were  her  own 
any  more  skillful  ? — for  her  returning  husband, 
haunted  her  all  the  while. 

"  It  shall  not  be  so  again  !"     Not  idly  uttered 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  1/9 

were  these  words.  All  the  evening  she  kept  re 
peating  them  to  herself  with  a  steadily-increasing 
purpose  and  a  clearer  vision.  "  Edward  shall 
never  have  another  occasion  for  rebuke." 

Several  times  during  the  evening  the  young 
husband  was  tempted  to  refer  to  the  conversa 
tion  held  with  his  mother  in  explanation  of  his 
conduct,  but  he  wisely  kept  his  own  counsel. 
Of  all  things,  he  dreaded  an  estrangement  be 
tween  his  wife  and  mother. 

On  the  next  morning  Edward  noticed  that 
his  young  wife  left  their  chamber  earlier  than 
usual  and  went  down  stairs.  Not,  however,  to 
fill  their  home  with  music,  as  she  had  often 
done.  Her  matinee  was  the  singing  tea-kettle, 
not  the  stringed  piano.  She  had  a  heightened 
color  when  she  took  her  place  at  the  breakfast- 
table  and  poured  for  her  husband  the  fragrant 
coffee  which  she  had  made  with  her  own  hands 
after  discovering  that  her  cook  was  ignorant  of 
the  art.  But  how  did  she  know  'the  art  ?  That 
was  almost  accidental ;  the  recollection  of  some 
good  housewife's  talk  had  served  her  in  the 
right  time.  The  warm  praise  bestowed  by  Ed 
ward  on  the  coffee  was  ample  reward. 

Ida  bought   a  cook-book   during  the  day — 


180  THE  FIRST  SHADOW. 

that  sounds  unromantic,  but  it  was  even  so — 
and  she  studied  it  for  hours.  During  the  after 
noon  her  mother-in-law  came  in,  and  Ida  urged 
her  to  stay  to  tea.  The  old  lady  accepted  the 
invitation — not,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  in  the  very 
best  spirit.  She  had  opened  the  war  on  Ed 
ward's  "  butterfly  "  young  wife,  and  she  meant 
to  follow  it  up.  When  Edward  came  home  and 
found  that  his  mother  was  there,  his  spirits  fell. 
He  saw  by  the  corners  of  her  mouth  that  she 
had  not  forgotten  their  interview  of  the  preced 
ing  day,  and  that  her  state  of  mind  was  not  a 
whit  more  charitable.  Ida's  face  was  a  little 
shadowed,  but  she  was  cheerful  and  very  atten 
tive  to  his  mother,  and,  happily,  ignorant  of  her 
true  feelings.  She  passed  often  between  the 
breakfast-room  and  the  parlor,  evidently  with 
household  cares  upon  her  mind. 

Tea  was  at  length  announced.  Edward's 
heart  trembled.  His  mother  arose,  and  with 
rather  a  cold  air  accompanied  her  children  to 
the  room  where  the  evening  meal  awaited  them. 
The  table  had  an  attractive  look,  new  to  the 
eyes  of  both  Edward  and  his  mother.  It  was 
plain  that  another  hand  besides  the  servant's 
had  been  there.  Ida  poured  the  tea,  and  Ed- 


THE  FIRST  SHADOW.  I  Si 

ward  served  the  hot  biscuit  and  cream  toast. 
The  eyes  of  the  latter  were  on  his  mother  as 
she  lifted,  with  an  air  which  he  understood  to 
say,  "Poor  stuff!"  the  cup  of.  tea  to  her  lips. 
She  tasted  the  fragrant  beverage,  set  the  cup 
down,  lifted  and  tasted  again.  The  infusion  was 
faultless  !  Yes,  even  to  her  critical  taste.  Next 
the  biscuit  was  tried,  and  next  the  toast.  Mrs. 
Goodfellow  herself  could  not  have  surpassed 
them. 

"  Have  you  changed  your  cook  ?"  The  old 
lady  looked  across  the  table  curiously  at  Ida. 

"  No,  mother,"  answered  the  young  wife,  smil 
ing.  "  Only  the  cook  has  found  a  mistress." 

"Is  this  all  your  work,  Ida?"  The  old  lady 
spoke  in  a  half-incredulous  tone. 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  my  work.  Don't  you  think,  if 
I  try  hard,  I'll  make  a  housekeeper  in  time  ?" 

This  was  so  unexpected  that  the  husband's 
mother  was  delighted.  Ida  had  gone  right 
home  to  her  matter-of-fact,  every-day  heart. 

"Why,  yes,  you  precious  little  darling!"  she 
answered,  with  an  enthusiasm  almost  foreign  to 
her  character.  "I  couldn't  have  done  better 
myself." 

The  shadow  passed  from  the  heart  of  Ida  as 

16 


1 82  THE   FIRST  SHADOW. 

her  eyes  rested  on  the  pleased  countenance  of 
her  husband.  This  was  the  first  shadow  that 
had  fallen  since  their  happy  wedding  day,  and  it 
moved  on  quickly,  but  its  memory  was  left  be 
hind.  It  was  like  the  drawing  of  a  veil  which 
partly  conceals  yet  beautifies  the  countenance. 

Ida's  husband  was  a  man  like  the  rest,  with 
man's  common  wants  and  weaknesses,  and  her 
married  world  was  one  in  which  hands  must  take 
hold  of  common  duties.  But  she  soon  learned 
that  in  the  real  world  were  real  delights,  sub 
stantial  and  abiding. 

Bravely  did  she  walk  in  the  new  path  that  lay 
at  her  feet.  She  had  her  reward.  Tea  and 
toast  but  expressed  her  household  duties,  none 
of  which  were  rightly  performed  during  the  de 
licious  honeymoon.  But  she  failed  in  nothing 
afterward,  and  soon  learned  that  the  ground  in 
which  true  happiness  takes  deepest  root,  and 
from  which  it  springs  up  with  strongest  branches, 
is  the  ground  of  common,  homely,  every-day 
duties. 


XIV. 
NOT  APPRECIATED. 

HE  last  sad  rites  were  over.  She  had 
fallen  by  the  way  ere  life's  meridian 
was  reached,  and  left  husband  and 
children  to  a  sorrow  that  mocks  for  a  time  at 
consolation.  Seven  years  she  had  been  a  wife, 
six  years  a  mother,  and  now  a  lonely-hearted 
man  and  three  little  motherless  ones  were  left 
in  the  dwelling  where  the  sunshine  of  her  lov 
ing  presence  would  never  again  appear. 

Mr.  Newcomb  was  a  sadder  man  now  than 
when  he  followed  the  palled  coffin  to  its  final 
resting-place.  And  there  were  reasons  why 
his  heart  should  feel  a  deeper  depression. 
A  few  friends  and  neighbors  had  returned  with 
him  from  the  place  of  graves,  and  they  had 
lingered  for  a  short  time  in  the  desolate  rooms, 
speaking  together  in  muffled  tones  of  the  de 
parted,  and  of  those  she  had  left  behind  her. 


1 84  NOT  APPRECIATED. 

Two  women  talked  in  this  wise,  and  it  so  hap 
pened  that  Mr.  Newcomb  heard  every  word. 
They  thought  him  in  one  of  the  upper  cham 
bers,  but  he  was  sitting  in  an  adjoining  room, 
and  their  voices  came  in  through  an  open 
window  and  smote  his  ears  with  intolerable 
pain. 

"  Poor  Alice  !"  said  one.  "It  is  a  blessed  re 
lief  for  her." 

"But  a  dreadful  loss  to  her  children,"  was 
answered.  "  Dear  little  babies !  My  heart 
aches  for  them.  And  I  pity  Mr.  Newcomb, 
also.  It  is  a  great  loss,  though  he  never  did 
rightly  appreciate  her,  poor  thing !" 

"  I  can't  get  up  much  sympathy  for  him/'  said 
the  other,  "and  it  isn't  any  use  to  try.  His 
wife  was  not  appreciated,  as  you  say.  He  did 
not  understand  her  disposition,  nor  give  her 
credit  for  the  virtues  she  possessed.  She  was 
faithful  and  loving,  but  sensitive — so  sensitive 
that  the  lightest  word  of  unkindness  was  felt  as 
a  painful  stroke." 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  said  the  neighbor, 
"of  one  of  the  bad  habits  he  indulged  in — of 
bantering  her  in  company  and  showing  off  her 
little  faults  or  peculiarities.  I  have  been  so 


NOT  APPRECIATED.  185 

provoked  with  him  that  I  could  with  difficulty 
keep  my  tongue  from  reproach." 

"  She  was  plain,  and  I  think  that  annoyed  him 
sometimes." 

"  Plain !  The  beauty  of  her  pure  spirit  was 
ever  shining  through  her  face,  and  if  his  eyes 
were  not  clear  enough  to  see  it,  he  was  un 
worthy  of  her." 

"  She  was  not  as  bright  as  some  other  wo 
men,  and  it  always  struck  me  that  he  indulged 
in  depreciating  contrasts." 

"  She  was  good,  true,  faithful,  loving,"  was 
answered,  "and  these  are  better  qualities  in  a 
wife  than  mere  brilliancy.  Do  you  remember 
that  evening  at  Mrs.  Bolton's  about  a  year 
ago  ?" 

"  Very  well." 

"  She  was  there,  you  know." 

"Yes.     I  recollect." 

"  He  flirted  with  pretty  Miss  Gardner,  who 
has  only  her  face  to  recommend  her." 

"  I  remember.  It  lowered  him  in  my  opinion. 
I  don't  like  to  see  married  men  too  particular  in 
their  attentions  to  showy  young  girls." 

"Nor  I.  Well,'  I  happened  to  catch  the 
expression  of  Mrs.  Newcomb's  face  when  her 


1 86  NOT  APPRECIATED. 

husband  was  standing  at  the  piano  turning  the 
music  while  Miss  Gardner  sung.  She  was  look 
ing  at  him.  Oh,  it  was  inexpressibly  sad !  A 
little  while  afterward  I  turned  again  to  the 
place  where  she  had  been  sitting  all  alone,  but 
she  was  not  there.  'What  ails  Mrs.  New- 
comb  ?'  I  heard  a  lady  ask  some  minutes  later. 
'  Dear  knows !'  was  the  almost  pettish  reply. 
'  She's  gone  off  up  stairs  to  have  a  cry  all  to 
herself.  Something's  gone  wrong,  I  suppose. 
She's  a  hard  body  to  get  on  with.  I  pity  her 
husband.'  I  pitied  her,  poor  child !  for  I  could 
understand  her  heart." 

"  He  went  a  great  deal  into  company  without 
his  wife." 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  asked  for  'her,  there  was 
always  an  air,  or  tone,  or  expression  in  his 
face  that  made  you  feel  as  if  he  did  not  regard 
her  as  of  much  consequence.  'Where  is  Mrs. 
Newcomb  ?'  you  would  inquire.  *  She  doesn't 
go  out,'  or,  *  She's  a  queer  little  home  body,'  or, 

*  The  baby's  sick,'  or,  *  She  doesn't  enjoy  com 
pany.'     These  were  the  reasons  he  would  give. 
It  has  been  on  my  lip  a  dozen  times  to  answer, 

*  Why  don't  you   stay  at  home   and  keep   her 
company?'     And   I   wish   now   that  I   had.      It 


NOT  APPRECIATED.  l8/ 

might  have  quickened  in  him  a  perception  of 
duty,  and  caused  a  Tew  more  rays  of  light  to 
fall  on  her  not  always  sunny  pathway." 

Mr.  Newcomb  heard  no  more.  But  wasn't 
that  enough  to  give  him  the  heartache  for 
years  ?  No,  he  had  not  appreciated  his  wife, 
now  lost  to  him  for  ever.  She  was  neither  a 
brilliant  nor  a  handsome  woman,  but  true  as 
steel  to  duty.  Love  for  her  husband  was  a 
passion  that  involved  all  the  elements  of  her 
life.  But  the  delicacy  of  her  perceptions  too 
soon  revealed  the  sad  truth  that  for  some 
cause  she  had  failed  to  win  from  her  husband 
a  love  in  any  degree  answering  to  her  own. 
This  so  shadowed  her  feelings  that  she  often 
appeared  unamiable  in  his  eyes,  when  she  was 
only  in  strife  with  hidden  anguish.  Gradually 
he  grew  indifferent,  and  simply  because  he 
did  not  understand  her.  He  imagined  her 
incapable  of  deep  affection,  when  every  chord 
in  Tier  soul  was  thrilling  in  too  painful  sensi 
bility. 

And  so  the  darkening  years  went  on,  and  the 
fevered  pulses  began  to  take  a  slower  beat. 
Mr.  Newcomb  grew  more  and  more  indifferent 
to  his  nervous  and  at  times  fretful  but  daily 


1 8 8  NOT  APPRE CIA  TED. 

fading"  wife.  Others  saw  that  her  days  were 
numbered,  but  he  did  not  take  the  alarm. 
"  Mrs.  Newcomb  looks  very  thin  and  feeble," 
remarked  a  friend.  "  She  isn't  quite  so  strong 
as  she  was,  but  she's  tough,"  replied  the  hus 
band.  Tough  !  At  the  very  moment  her  over 
stretched  heartstrings  were  beginning  to  yield ! 
And  he  was  in  robust  health — ruddy-faced,  clear- 
eyed,  round-limbed  and  with  every  muscle  in 
full  vigor.  He  could  not  sympathize  with  the 
feeble  woman  moving  about  his  house  like  a 
shadow,  nor  comprehend  how  he  was  daily  ex 
tinguishing  a  life  that  looked  vainly  to  him  for 
the  food  upon  which  it  alone  could  exist. 

"Tough!"  If  she  did  linger  on  for  a  time,  it 
was  pitying  love  for  her  babes  that  kept  her 
alive,  gave  strength  to  her  feeble  limbs  and 
endurance  to  her  sinking  heart.  And  as  she 
became  weaker,  he  seemed  rather  to  recede 
than  draw  near — to  grow  cold  toward  her 
instead  of  tender  and  compassionate.  And  so 
her  day  went  down  in  clouds  and  rain. 

No,  she  had  not  been  appreciated.  Mr. 
Newcomb  was  a  good  sort  of  a  man,  taking 
the  general  acceptation  of  the  words — a  pleas 
ant  neighbor,  an  agreeable  friend,  an  honest 


NOT  APPRECIATED.  189 

citizen — but  he  had  not  proved  a  good  hus 
band  to  the  woman  he  had  taken  to  be  his 
wife,  simply  because  he  had  not  rightly  com 
prehended  her  quality  nor  reached  her  con 
sciousness.  She  was  of  finer  spiritual  texture 
than  he  had  imagined,  and  died  because  she 
could  not  live  in  the  earth-laden  atmosphere  he 
compelled  her  to  breathe. 

"  Not  appreciated."  There  are  Mrs.  New- 
combs  all  around  us.  Their  pale  faces  haunt 
us  at  every  turn ;  their  mournful  funerals  shadow 
our  streets ;  their  orphaned  babes  sit  weeping 
for  love  in  many  a  lonely  dwelling.  And  the 
ruddy-faced  Mr.  Newcombs — smiling,  affable, 
"  such  good  company,"  favorites  at  every  feast 
— are  around  us  also.  We  send  a  word  of  truth 
to  their  hearts;  may  its  passage  be  sure  and 
quick,  like  the  passage  of  an  arrow! 


XV. 

SMILES  FOR  HOME. 

JAKE  that  home  with  you,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Lewis,  her  manner  half  smiling, 
half  serious. 

"Take  what  home,  Caddy?"  and  Mr.  Lewis 
turned  toward  his  wife  curiously. 

Now,  Mrs.  Lewis  had  spoken  from  the  mo 
ment's  impulse,  and  already  partly  regretted  her 
remark. 

"Take  what  home?"  repeated  her  husband. 
"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"That  smiling  face  you  turned  upon  Mr.  Ed 
wards  when  you  answered  his  question  just 
now." 

Mr.  Lewis  slightly  averted  his  head  and 
walked  on  in  silence.  They  had  called  in  at 
the  store  of  Mr.  Edwards  to  purchase  a  few 
articles,  and  were  now  on  their  way  home. 
There  was  no  smile  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Lewis 

190 


SMILES  FOR  HOME.  igl 

now,  but  a  very  grave  expression  instead — grave 
almost  to  sternness.  The  words  of  his  wife  had 
taken  him  altogether  by  surprise,  and,  though 
spoken  lightly,  had  jarred  upon  his  ears. 

The  truth  was,  Mr.  Lewis,  like  a  great  many 
other  men  who  have  their  own  business  cares 
and  troubles,  was  in  the  habit  of  bringing  home 
a  sober  and  too  often  a  clouded  face.  It  was 
in  vain  that  his  wife  and  children  looked  into 
that  face  for  sunshine  or  listened  to  his  words 
for  tones  of  cheerfulness. 

"  Take  that  home  with  you,  dear."  Mrs. 
Lewis  was  already  repenting  this  suggestion, 
made  on  the  moment's  impulse.  Her  husband 
was  sensitive  to  a  fault.  He  could  not  bear 
even  an  implied  censure  from  his  wife.  And 
so  she  had  learned  to  be  very  guarded  in  this 
particular. 

"  Take  that  home  with  you,  dear !  *  Ah,  me ! 
I  wish  the  words  had  not  been  said.  There  will 
be  darker  clouds  now,  and  Gracious  knows  they 
were  dark  enough  before !  Why  can't  Mr. 
Lewis  leave  his  cares  and  business  behind  him, 
and  let  us  see  the  old,  pleasant,  smiling  face 
again  ?  I  thought  this  morning  that  he  had 
forgotten  how  to  smile,  but  I  see  that  he  can. 


1 92  SMILES  FOR   HOME. 

smile  if  he  tries.  Ah !  why  don't  he  try  at 
home?" 

So  Mrs.  Lewis  talked  to  herself  as  she  moved 
along  by  the  side  of  her  husband,  who  had  not 
spoken  a  word  since  her  reply  to  his  query, 
"Take  what  home?"  Block  after  block  was 
passed,  and  street  after  street  crossed,  and  still 
there  was  silence  between  them. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  speaking  in  her 
own  thoughts — "  of  course  he  is  offended.  He 
won't  bear  a  word  from  me.  I  might  have 
known  beforehand  that  talking  out  in  this  way 
would  only  make  things  worse.  Oh  dear !  I'm 
getting  out  of  all  heart!" 

"What  then,  Caddy?" 

Mrs.  Lewis  almost  started  at  the  sound  of 
her  husband's  voice  breaking  unexpectedly 
upon  her  ear  in  a  softened  tone. 

"What  then?"  he  repeated,  turning  toward 
her  and  looking  down  into  her  shyly  upturned 
face. 

"It  would  send  warmth  and  radiance  through 
the  whole  house,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  her  tones  all 
a-tremble  with  feeling,  and  scarcely  able  to  give 
utterance  to  her  words. 

"You  think  so?" 


SMILES  FOR  HOME.  1 93 

"  I  know  so !  Only  try  it,  dear,  for  this  one 
evening." 

"  It  isn't  so  easy  a  thing  to  put  on  a  smiling 
face,  Caddy,  when  thought  is  oppressed  with 
care." 

"It  didn't  seem  to  require  much  effort  just 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  glancing  up  at  her 
husband  with  something  of  archness  in  her 
look. 

Again  a  shadow  dropped  down  upon  the 
face  of  Mr.  Lewis,  which  was  partly  turned 
away  from  his  wife,  and  as  before  they  walked 
on  in  silence. 

"  He  is  so  sensitive !"  Mrs.  Lewis  said  to 
herself,  the  shadow  on  her  husband's  face 
darkening  over  her  own.  "I  have  to  be  as 
careful  of  my  words  as  if  talking  to  a  spoiled 
child." 

No,  it  did  not  require  much  effort  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Lewis  to  smile  as  he  passed  a 
few  words  lightly  with  Mr.  Edwards.  The 
remark  of  his  wife  had  not  really  displeased 
him ;  it  had  only  set  him  to  thinking.  After 
remaining  gravely  silent,  because  he  was  un 
dergoing  a  brief  self-examination,  Mr.  Lewis 
said : 

17  N 


IQ4  SMILES  FOR  HOME. 

"  You  thought  the  smile  given  to  Mr.  Edwards 
came  easily  enough  ?" 

"  It  did  not  seem  to  require  an  effort/'  replied 
Mrs.  Lewis. 

"  No,  not  much  effort  was  required/'  said  Mr. 
Lewis.  His  tones  were  slightly  depressed. 
"  But  this  must  be  taken  into  the  account :  my 
mind  was  in  a  certain  state  of  excitement,  or 
activity,  that  repressed  sober  feelings  and  made 
smiling  an  easy  thing.  So  we  smile  and  are 
gay  in  company  at  cost  of  little  effort,  because  all 
are  smiling  and  gay  and  we  feel  the  common 
effect  of  excitement.  How  different  it  often 
is  when  we  are  alone,  I  need  not  say.  You, 
Caddy,  are  guilty  of  the  sober  face  at  home  as 
well  as  your  husband."  Mr.  Lewis  spoke  with 
a  tender  reproof  in  his  voice. 

"  But  the  sober  face  is  caught  from  yours 
oftener  than  you  imagine,  my  husband,"  replied 
Mrs.  Lewis. 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that,  Caddy  ?" 

"  Very  certain.  You  make  the  sunlight  and 
the  shadow  of  your  home.  Smile  upon  us,  give 
us  cheerful  words,  enter  into  our  feelings  and 
interests,  and  there  wall  be  no  brighter  home  in 
all  the  land.  A  shadow  on  your  countenance  is 


SMILES  FOR  HOME.  1 95 

a  veil  for  my  heart,  and  the  same  is  true  as 
respects  our  children.  Our  pulses  beat  too 
nearly  in  unison  not  to  be  disturbed  when  yours 
is  irregular." 

Again  Mr.  Lewis  walked  on  in  silence,  his 
face  partly  averted,  and  again  his  wife  began 
to  fear  that  she  had  spoken  too  freely.  But 
he  soon  dispelled  this  impression,  for  he  said: 

"I  am  glad,  Caddy,  that  you  have  spoken 
thus  plainly.  I  only  'wish  you  had  done  so 
before.  I  see  how  it  is.  My  smiles  have  been 
for  the  outside  world — the  world  that  neither 
loved  nor  regarded  me — and  my  clouded  brow 
for  the  dear  ones  at  home,  for  whom  thought 
and  care  are  ever-living  activities." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis  were  now  at  their  own 
door,  where  they  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
went  in.  Instantly  on  passing  his  threshold 
Mr.  Lewis  felt  the  pressure  upon  him  of  his 
usual  state.  The  hue  of  his  feelings  began  to 
change.  The  cheerful,  interested  exterior  put 
on  for  those  he  met  in  business  intercourse 
began  rapidly  to  change  and  a  sober  hue  to 
succeed.  Like  most  business-men,  his  desire 
for  profitable  results  was  ever  far  in  advance 
of  the  slow  evolutions  of  trade,  and  his  daily 


19  SMILES  FOR  HOME. 

history  was  a  history  of  disappointments  in 
some  measure  dependent  upon  his  restless 
anticipations.  He  was  not  as  willing  to  work 
and  to  wait  as  he  should  be,  and,  like  many 
of  his  class,  neglected  the  pearls  that  lay  here 
and  there  along  his  life-path  because  they 
were  inferior  in  value  to  those  he  hoped  to 
find  just  a  little  way  in  advance.  The  con 
sequence  was,  that  when  the  day's  business 
excitement  was  over  his  mind  fell  into  a  brood 
ing  state,  and  lingered  over  its  disappointments 
or  looked  forward  with  failing  hope  in  the 
future,  for  hope,  in  many  things,  had  been 
long  deferred.  And  so  he  rarely  had  smiles 
for  his  home. 

"  Take  that  home  with  you,  dear,"  whispered 
Mrs.  -Lewis  as  they  moved  along  the  passage, 
and  before  they  had  joined  the  family.  She 
had  an  instinctive  consciousness  that  her  hus 
band  was  in  danger  of  relapsing  into  his  usual 
state. 

The  warning  was  just  in  time. 

"Thank  you  for  the  words  1"  said  he.  "I  will 
not  forget  them." 

And  he  did  not,  but  at  once  rallied  himself, 
and  to  the  glad  surprise  of  Jenny,  Will  and 


APPLES    OF    GOLD    IN     PICTURES    OF    SILVER." 

Page  197. 


^         SMILES  FOR  HOME.  197 

Mary  met  them  with  a  new  face,  covered  with 
fatherly  smiles,  and  with  pleasant  questions  in 
pleasant  tones  of  their  day's  employments. 
The  feelings  of  children  move  in  quick  transi 
tions.  They  had  not  expected  a  greeting  like 
this,  but  the  response  was  instant.  Little  Jenny 
climbed  into  her  father's  arms ;  Will  came  and 
stood  by  his  father's  chair,  answering  in  lively 
tones  his  questions ;  while  Mary,  older  by  a  few 
years  than  the  rest,  leaned  against  her  father's 
shoulder  and  laid  her  white  hand  softly  upon 
his  head,  smoothing  back  the  dark  hair,  just 
showing  a  little  frost,  from  .his  broad,  manly 
temples. 

A  pleasant  group  was  this  for  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Lewis  as  she  came  into  the  sitting-room 
from  her  chamber,  where  she  had  gone  to  lay 
off  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  change  her  dress. 

Well  did  her  husband  understand  the  meaning- 

t> 

look  she  gave  him,  and  warmly  did  her  heart 
respond  to  the  smile  he  threw  back  upon  her. 

"  Words  fitly  spoken  are  like  apples  of  gold 
in  pictures  of  silver,"  said  Mr.  Lewis,  speaking 
to  her  as  she  came  in. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mary, 
looking  curiously  into  her  father's  face, 


ir* 


198  SMILES  FOR  HOME.        ^ 

"  Mother  understands,"  replied  Mr.  Lewis, 
smiling  tenderly  upon  his  wife. 

"  Something  pleasant  must  have  happened," 
said  Mary. 

" Something  pleasant?  Why  do  you  say 
that  ?"  asked  Mr.  Lewis. 

"  You  and  mother  look  so  happy,"  replied  the 
child. 

"  And  we  have  cause  to  be  happy,"  answered 
the  father  as  he  drew  his  arm  tightly  around 
her,  "  in  having  three  such  good  children." 

Mary  laid  her  cheek  to  his  and  whispered : 
"If  you  are  always  smiling  and  happy,  dear 
father,  home  will  be  like  heaven." 

Mr.  Lewis  kissed  her,  but  did  not  reply.  He 
felt  a  rebuke  in  her  words.  But  the  rebuke  did 
not  throw  a  chill  over  his  feelings ;  it  only  gave 
new  strength  to  his  purposes. 

"  Don't  distribute  all  your  smiles.  Keep  a 
few  of  the  warmest  and  brightest  for  home," 
said  Mrs.  Lewis  as  she  parted  with  her  husband 
on  the  next  morning.  He  kissed  her,  but  did 
not  promise.  The  smiles  were  kept,  however, 
and  evening  saw  them.  Other  and  many  even 
ings  saw  the  same  cheerful  smiles  and  the  same 
happy  home.  And  was  not  Mr.  Lewis  a  bet- 


SMILES  FOR  HOME.  199 

ter  and  happier  man  ?  Of  course  he  was.  And 
so  would  all  men  be  if  they  would  take  home 
with  them  the  smiling  aspect  they  so  often  ex 
hibit  as  they  meet  their  fellow-men  in  business 
intercourse  or  exchange  words  in  passing  com 
pliments.  Take  your  smiles  and  cheerful  words 
home  with  you,  husbands,  fathers  and  brothers. 
Your  hearths  are  cold  and  dark  without  them. 


XVI. 
THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

ON'T  urge  me,  Henry,"  said  Mrs. 
Hewling  to  her  young,  intelligent, 
good-looking  husband  ;  "  I  cannot  go. 
With  me,  as  you  well  know,  all  such  gay  pleas 
ures  are  at  an  end." 

"  I  urge  you,  Anna  dear,"  said  Mr.  Hewling, 
speaking  very  tenderly  and  smoothing  with  his 
hand,  as  he  spoke,  the  dark  glossy  hair  from 
which  she  had  removed  every  sign  of  a  curl  and 
parted  smoothly  away  toward  the  white  temple, 
"  for  two  reasons.  One,  because  I  think  this 
continued  seclusion  of  yourself  wrong  and  in 
jurious  to  your  state  of  mind,  and  the  other, 
because  I  do  not  wish  to  go  alone  to  General 
Malcolm's.  More  than  half  my  pleasure  is  lost, 
in  any  company,  by  your  absence." 

"  It  is  impossible  !"  Mrs.  Hewling  answered, 

and  there  was  just  a  sign  of  impatience  in  her 
200 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  2OI 

voice  as  she  spoke,  "  and  I  wonder  that  you  can 
so  urge  me.  Am  I  not  still  in  black?" 

"  Lay  aside  your  black,  dear."  Mr.  Hewling's 
tone  lost  not  a  single  shade  of  affection.  "  You 
have  worn  it  too  long  already.  Nay,  it  should 
never  have  gathered  like  a  gloomy  death-curtain 
around  you,  shadowing  both  mind  and  body  as 
it  has  done.  Lay  your  black  aside." 

"  Never !"  said  Mrs.  Hewling,  almost  indig 
nantly.  "When  we  buried  our  little  Flora  the 
light  of  joy  died  in  my  heart  and  the  darkness 
of  a  perpetual  mourning  gathered  around  my 
spirit.  I  shall  never  lay  it  aside." 

The  hand  of  Mr.  Hewling  was  removed  from 
the  glossy  hair  of  his  wife,  and  with  a  sup 
pressed  sigh  he  stepped  back  from  her  a  pace 
or  two. 

"  Don't  let  my  remaining  at  home  keep  you 
from  General  Malcolm's,"  said  Mrs.  Hewling,  in 
a  cold  way.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  deprive  you  of 
any  enjoyment." 

"  If  I  had  not  promised  to  meet  an  old  friend 
there  I  would  not  go,"  replied  Mr.  Hewling. 
"  As  it  is,  my  word  binds  me." 

He  did  not  say,  as  he  might  have  done,  that 
the  person  he  had  engaged  to  see  was  a  lady 


202  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

friend,  and  one  to  whom  he  wished  to  present 
his  wife. 

"  Go,  by  all  means.  I  would  be  selfish  to  wish 
to  deprive  you  of  a  single  pleasure,"  Mrs.  Hew- 
ling  said,  in  a  sad  kind  of  way. 

And  Mr.  Hewling  did  go — not,  however,  with 
any  pleasurable  anticipations.  It  was  now  over 
a  year  since  death  claimed  their  youngest  born, 
a  babe  whose  life  had  numbered  only  a  few 
months.  This  was  the  mother's  first  grief,  her 
first  experience  in  sorrow,  and  she  bowed  her 
head,  refusing  to  be  comforted.  Ever  since  that 
time  she  had  been  sitting  in  darkness,  and  she 
would  suffer  no  one — not  even  her  husband — to 
lead  her  forth  into  the  cheerful  sunlight. 

Mr.  Hewling  was  a  man  of  social  feeling,  and 
one  who  took  pleasure  in  friendly  intercourse. 
His  wife's  gloomy  state  of  mind  and  her  entire 
seclusion  of  herself  deprived  him  of  one  of  his 
life's  truest  enjoyments,  for  he  never  cared  to 
go  into  company  unless  she  were  with  him.  On 
the  present  occasion  he  went  with  more  than  his 
usual  reluctance.  He  not  only  loved  his  wife, 
but  was  proud  of  her,  and  as  she  was  a  hand 
some  woman,  of  refined  tastes  and  cultivated 
intellect,  he  naturally  felt  desirous  to  see  her 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  203 

in  comparison  with  other  women — that  compar 
ison  being  always  so  favorable  to  her,  at  least  in 
his  estimation.  Such  fond  pricle  in  a  husband 
may  be  classed  with  virtues  instead  of  weak 
nesses.  Wives,  at  least,  will  approve  the  senti 
ment,  while  others  may  smile,  and  say,  good- 
humoredly,  "  An  amiable  weakness." 

To  the  lady  friend — an  old  favorite  of  Mr. 
Hewling's,  and  one  who,  ere  his  choice  was 
made,  came  near  winning  the  highest  place  in 
his  affections — he  felt  particularly  desirous  of 
presenting  his  wife.  But  he  was  forced  to  go 
to  the  entertainment  at  General  Malcolm's 
alone. 

It  was  over  three  years  since  Mr.  Hewling 
had  seen  Miss  Lightner,  the  old  friend  to  whom 
we  have  referred,  and  the  meeting  was  one  of 
pleasure  on  both  sides.  The  lady  had  gained 
womanly  attractions  during  that  period,  and 
now  met  her  former  friend  and  almost  lover  in 
the  beauty  of  maturer  charms.  The  girlish 
lightness  of  her  character  had  given  way  to  a 
dignified  bearing  that  imparted  something  noble 
to  her  manners,  and  the  ripeness  of  a  cultivated 
intellect,  added  to  personal  graces  of  no  com 
mon  order,  threw  around  her  a  web  of  fascina- 


204  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

ticns  that  made  her  a  centre  of  attraction  in  all 
companies. 

Ere  Mr.  Hewling  was  aware  of  it,  he  was  so 
drawn  within  the  circle  of  her  influence  as  to  be 
an  admirer.  "  How  wonderfully  she  has  im 
proved  !  Into  what  a  charming  woman  she  has 
grown !"  he  said  to  himself  almost  enthusiastic 
ally. 

And  then  his  thoughts  ran  back  to  the  time 
when,  in  contrast  with  the  sweet  maiden  he  had 
chosen  for  wife,  her  charms  failed  in  power  over 
him  and  all  the  wealth  of  his  pure  love  was 
given  to  another.  Alas  that  the  contrast  left 
a  different  impression  now ! 

"  Is  Mrs.  Hewling  present  ?"  asked  Miss 
Lightner  soon  after  their  meeting.  "  I  have 
not  had  the  pleasure,  you  know,  of  making  her 
acquaintance." 

The  eyes  of  Miss  Lightner  were  on  the  face 
of  her  old  friend,  reading  every  shade  of  ex 
pression.  She  saw  an  instant  change. 

"  She  is  not  here,"  replied  Mr.  Hewling,  al 
most  sighing  as  he  spoke. 

"  Not  sick,  I  hope  ?"  Miss  Lightner' s  gaze 
was  most  penetrating.  A  suspicion  had  flashed 
across  her  mind  that  the  marriage  of  her  old 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  2O$ 

friend  had  not  proved  congenial,  and  she  was 
looking  for  the  signs  of  disappointment.  Of  all 
the  men  with  whom  she  had  enjoyed  an  intimate 
acquaintance,  she  had  admired  Mr.  Hewling 
most,  and  had  he  chosen  her  from  among  the 
maidens,  and  asked  her  to  stand  beside  him  at 
the  altar,  she  would  have  linked  unhesitatingly 
her  fortunes  with  his.  As  it  was,  she  had  de 
clined  many  offers,  because  those  who  sought 
her  Ipve  fell  below  the  manly  ideal  up  to  which 
her  perceptions  had  been*  raised. 

"Sick  in  mind,"  replied  Mr.  Hewling.  "It  is 
over  a  year  since  we  lost  a  babe,  and  ever  since 
that  time  my  wife  has  been  sitting  in  darkness. 
I  cannot  dispel  the  gloom  that  surrounds  her, 
nor  win  her  from  her  shadowed  seclusion  into 
the  cheerful  sunlight.  I  did  hope  that  she  would 
accompany  me  here  this  evening,  so  that  you 
might  meet  and  be  friends.  But  I  am  disap 
pointed." 

The  tones  of  Mr.  Hewling  expressed  even 
more  regret  than  his  words. 

"  How  much  I  should  have  been  pleased  to 
make  her  acquaintance  !"  said  the  young  lady 
with  something  of  her  old  warmth  and  familiar 
ity  of  manner,  and  in  a  tone  that  gave  a  pleas- 
is 


206  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

ant  motion  to  the  feelings  of  her  old  acquaint 
ance.  Then  she  gradually  led  the  conversation 
into  another  channel,  and  so  charmed  him  with 
the  graces  of  a  rarely-cultivated  intellect  that 
the  hours  flew  by  on  such  light  pinions  that  he 
scarcely  noted  their  passage.  Almost  through 
the  entire  evening  they  were  together.  Once 
Miss  Lightner  danced,  and  then  Mr.  Hewling 
was  her  partner.  She  pleaded  fatigue  in  de 
clining  the  invitation  of  another  gentleman  to 
join  in  a  subsequent  quadrille.  So  interested 
were  they  in  each  other  as  to  occasion  remark. 

"  How  long  will  you  remain  in  the  city  ?"  in 
quired  <  Mr.  Hewling,  as  he  noticed  that  more 
than  half  the  company  had  retired,  and  saw  by 
his  watch  that  swift-footed  time  had  carried  them 
far  past  the  hour  of  midnight. 

"  For  some  weeks,"  was  answered. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  opera  yet  ?" 

"  No." 

"Then  you  must  hear  Gazzaniga,"  said  Mr. 
Hewling. 

"That  is  one  of  the  pleasures  in  reserve  for 
me.  And  it  will  be  a  high  pleasure,  as  I  am 
passionately  fond  of  music,"  said  Miss  Lightner. 

"  Are  you  engaged  for  to-morrow  evening  ?" 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  2O/ 

"  No." 

There  was  a  brief  pause.  "  How  will  it  look 
for  me  to  be  seen  at  the  opera  with  Miss  Light- 
ner,  and  my  wife  at  home  hiding  herself  from 
the  world  in  a  grief  that  will  not  admit  of  con 
solation  ?"  He  did  not  wait  to  answer  the 
question  to  his  own  satisfaction,  but  obeying 
impulse  instead  of  reason,  said, 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  ? 
She  sings  in  II  Trovatore." 

"  The  temptation  is  too  great  for  me  to  an 
swer  no,"  replied  the  lady,  throwing  into  her 
smile  a  fascination  that  gave  to  her  countenance 
a  new  beauty  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Hewling. 

"  I  have  promised  an  old  friend  whom  I  met 
at  General  Malcolm's  to  take  her  to  the  opera 
this  evening,"  said  Mr.  Hewling  to  his  wife  on 
the  next  day. 

"  Have  you  ?"  Mrs.  Hewling  glanced  toward 
her  husband  with  a  look  of  surprise.  "  Who  is 
she  ?" 

"The  lady  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken. 
Her  name  is  Miss  Lightner.  I  so  much  regret 
ted  your  absence  from  General  Malcolm's  last 
evening !  I  wanted  you  to  meet  each  other." 

Mrs.   Hewling   sighed,  and  the   light  of  an 


208  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

awakening  interest  which  had  come  into  her 
face  lost  itself  among  the  old  shadows. 

"Won't  you  go  with  us  this  evening?  Say 
yes,  Anna!  It  will  be  such  a  pleasure  to  me." 
The  husband  spoke  with  ardor. 

"  How  strange  it  is  that  you  will  urge  me  in 
this  way!"  answered  Mrs.  Hewling,  with  enough 
of  fretfulness  in  voice  and  manner  to  give  her 
an  unlovely  aspect  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband. 
In  the  same  instant  the  more  attractive  face  of 
Miss  Lightner  intruded  itself  in  contrast,  and 
with  the  distinctness  of  a  living  presence. 

Mr.  Hewling  said  nothing  more.  The  case 
seemed  hopeless.  Something  of  coldness  and 
something  of  alienation  were  so  distinctly  per 
ceived  that  he  turned  with  an  involuntary  move 
ment  partly  away  from  his  wife. 

There  was  in  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Hewling  a 
new,  strange  and  uncomfortable  feeling  after 
her  husband  left  her  on  that  evening  to  attend 
the  opera  with  Miss  Lightner,  a  lady  whom  she 
had  never  seen,  and  of  whose  person  and  cha 
racter  she  had  no  distinct  image  or  perception. 
It  was  something  unusual  for  her  husband  to  be 
away  from  home  for  two  evenings  in  succes 
sion,  and  his  absence  left  her  so  lonely  and 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  2OQ 

her  spirit  so  restless  that  she  wandered  un 
easily  from  room  to  room,  or  sat  still  and  wept, 
unable  to  trace  the  cause  of  tears.  More  un 
happy  hours  than  these  she  had  never  spent, 
and  when,  long  after  midnight,  her  husband 
came  home,  she  threw  herself  sobbing  upon 
his  bosom.  With  loving  words,  that  had  in 
them  a  tone  of  reproof,  he  sought  to  calm 
this  turbulence  of  feeling.  To  him  the  transi 
tion  was  unpleasing,  and  tended  to  increase  the 
slight  coldness  and  alienation  of  which  we  have 
spoken.  He  had  just  parted  from  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  women  he  had  ever  met — from 
one  who,  either  from  weak  pride  or  evil  design, 
had  sought  to  snare  him  with  her  beauty — and 
had  returned  to  his  wife,  who,  instead  of  wisely 
seeking  to  adapt  herself  to  the  social  necessities 
of  his  nature,  had  in  a  weak  and  selfish  grief 
veiled  from  him  the  loveliness  of  her  true  cha 
racter,  and  let  him  go  forth  alone  into  the  world 
to  have  his  eyes  dazzled  by  the  glare  of  false 
attractions.  We  make  no  justification  in  his 
case.  He  was  human,  and  humanity  is  weak. 
It  is  with  things  as  they  are  that  we  now  deal, 
and  let  the  reader  take  them  as  they  are. 

Before  parting  with  Miss  Lightner,  on  attend- 


18* 


210  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

ing  her  home  from  the  opera,  Mr.  Hewling 
made  an  engagement  to  go  with  her  to  hear 
Linda  on  the  next  evening  but  one.  He  did 
not  mention  the  engagement  to  his  wife,  for 
he  had  a  feeling  as  if  it  were  hardly  right  for 
him  to  go  a  second  time  to  so  public  a  place  as 
the  opera  with  this  charming  young  lady. 

Mrs.  Malcolm,  the  wife  of  General  Malcolm, 
was  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Hewling's  mother. 
She  was  a  clear-seeing,  true-hearted  woman, 
and  much  attached  to  Mrs.  Hewling,  whom  she 
had  often  sought  to  win  from  her  self-imposed 
seclusion.  On  the  day  following  this  first  visit 
to  the  opera  she  called  upon  Mrs.  Hewling,  whom 
she  found  in  a  more  than  usually  depressed 
state  of  mind.  She  had  a  duty  to  perform,  and 
she  had  come  with  that  end,  and  meant  to  do  it 
faithfully.  What  little  she  had  seen  of  the  bril 
liant  Miss  Lightner  impressed  her  unfavorably, 
and  when  she  learned  Mr.  Hewling  was  with 
her  at  the  opera  on  the  night  following  the 
party  at  her  house,  and  that  they  seemed 
more  attentive  to  each  other  than  to  the  music, 
she  at  once  decided  as  to  her  own  action  in  the 
case.  To  the  young  mother's  "lost  darling" 
she  first  turned  her  thoughts.  That  was  a 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  211 

theme  on  which  Mrs.  Hewling  most  loved  to 
dwell,  and  in  contemplating  which  she  always 
indulged  in  the  luxury  of  tears. 

"  Your  precious  babe  is  not  lost,  only  saved, 
and  for  ever  safe  in  the  mansions  of  our  heaven 
ly  Father,"  said  Mrs.  Malcolm.  "  But  there  is 
a  loss  which  you  may  suffer,  Anna,  that  will  be 
without  hope  here  or  hereafter." 

"  If  the  soul  is  lost,  then—" 

"  I  mean  not  that,"  said  Mrs.  Malcolm,  inter 
rupting  the  speaker.  There  was  a  pause,  and 
then  she  added: 

"What  if  you  were  to  lose  your  husband's 
love?" 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Hewling  turned  instantly 
pallid,  for  there  was  a  tone  prophetic  of  evil  in 
the  voice  of  her  friend. 

"  How  did  you  win  his  love  ?"  Calmly  yet 
very  earnestly  did  Mrs.  Malcolm  speak.  "  By 
sighs  and  tears,  and  a  sorrowful  hiding  of  your 
self  away?  By  the  gathering  of  mourning 
weeds  around  you,  and  sitting"  down  among- 

J  O  O 

the  ashes  of  grief,  refusing  to  be  comforted? 
Was  it  in  this  way  that  you  won  his  love  ?  If 
so,  then  in  this  way  may  you  hope  to  retain  the 
priceless  treasure !  If  not,  look  to  it  that  you 


212  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

become  not  unlovely  in  his  eyes !  I  marvel, 
and  have  long  marveled,  Anna,  at  your  folly, 
and  I  now  utter  a  cry  of  warning  in  your  ears 
ere  it  be  too  late !" 

With  lips  apart,  eager  eyes  and  face  like 
ashes,  Mrs.  Hewling  gazed  with  a  frightened 
look  upon  her  monitor. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Speak  plainly!"  she 
gasped.  "Is  anything  wrong?  Your  words 
are  like  sharp  arrows  piercing  to  the  very  life- 
fountains  !" 

"  Yes,  something  is  wrong,  very  wrong !" 
answered  Mrs.  Malcolm.  "  For  more  than  a 
year  you  have  held  your  social,  cheerful-minded 
husband  away  from  congenial  life,  because  you 
cherished  a  selfish  and  rebellious  grief  in  your 
heart,  instead  of  being  thankful  to  your  Father 
in  heaven  for  having  given  your  sweet  babe  an 
eternal  home  among  the  angels.  In  that  you 
have  wronged  him.  And  now,  hopeless  of  any 
change  in  you,  he  has  stepped  again  into  the 
outer  world,  and  at  once  his  attractive  qualities 
have  drawn  to  his  side  those  who,  were  you 
with  him  in  the  beauty  and  charm  of  your  real 
character,  could  gain  no  power  over  him,  but 
who—" 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

Mrs.  Malcolm  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for 
a  more  death-like  pallor  was  overspreading  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Hewling. 

"  Anna  " — she  spoke  in  a  gentler  way  and  with 
less  of  fearful  portent  in  her  voice — "Anna,  my 
dear  young  friend,  it  is  not  too  late.  You  pos 
sess  the  love  of  as  true  and  noble  a  heart  as 
ever  beat  in  manly  bosom — a  love  long  tried 
and — forgive  me  for  saying  it — sadly  wronged. 
But  the  time  has  come  when  that  love  is  to  be 
severely  tempted.  Do  you  know  Miss  Light- 
ner?" 

"  I  never  met  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Hewling,  in 
a  husky  voice. 

"  If  rumor  be  true,  there  was  a  time  when  she 
bore  to  you  the  relation  of  rival,  but,  as  the 
issue  proved,  an  unsuccessful  one.  Rumor  also 
says  that  she  has  refused  many  offers  since,  and 
that  she  has  been  heard  to  remark  that  when 
she  meets  another  man  like  your  husband  she 
will  marry.  Now,  Anna,  when  I  tell  you  that 
she  is  a  woman  of  remarkable  beauty  and  of 
most  winning  manners,  and  that,  as  I  read  her, 
is  using  her  utmost  power  to  fascinate  your 
husband,  I  need  not  add  that  there  is  danger  in 
your  path,  but  a  danger  that  your  own  hand 


214  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

can  sweep  aside  now  as  a  thing  lighter  than 
gossamer.  Let  it  remain,  make  no  effort  to  be 
to  your  husband  what  you  once  were,  and  a 
giant's  strength  may  not  remove  it." 

Much  more  in  the  same  earnest  spirit  did  this 
true  friend  urge  upon  Mrs.  Hewling,  and  she 
was  successful  in  her  effort  to  make  her  com 
prehend  in  its  broadest  sense  the  error  into 
which  a  mere  selfish  grief  had  led  her,  and  the 
fearful  peril  of  all  that  was  dearest  in  life. 

The  day  to  Mr.  Hewling  was  one  of  the  most 
restless  he  had  spent  for  a  long  time.  He  felt 
dissatisfied  with  himself,  and  when  thought 
turned  toward  his  wife,  old,  tender  emotions  did 
not  stir  in  his  bosom.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
darker  shadow  upon  his  home,  while  all  the 
world,  from  which  he  was  held  back,  seemed 
garmented  in  sunshine.  Sober  reflection  had 
presented  to  his  mind  certain  aspects  of  his  re 
lation  to  Miss  Lightner  that  were  not  agreeable 
to  contemplate,  and  he  regretted  his  hasty  en 
gagement  with  her  for  a  second  evening  at  the 
opera. 

Mr.  Hewling  returned  home  almost  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual.  As  he  ascended  the  steps 
of  his  dwelling  he  caught  a  momentary  glimpse 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  21$ 

of  a  lady  near  one  of  the  parlor  windows 
dressed  in  brown  silk  and  wearing  a  tasteful 
lace  cap.  There  was  something  familiar  in  her 
appearance,  yet  he  had  failed  to  recognize  her, 
as  only  a  portion  of  her  features  was  seen. 
Opening  the  street  door,  he  passed  through  the 
vestibule,  and  was  going  by  the  parlors  when 
the  brown  silk  dress  and  lace  cap  intercepted 
him,  and  a  face  no  longer  draped  in  sadness  and 
a  pair  of  eyes  frorn  which  the  veil  was  removed 
looked  lovingly,  as  of  old,  into  his  own. 

"Anna!"  he  exclaimed,  with  such  a  tone  of 
surprise  and  pleasure  in  his  voice  that  the  heart 
of  his  wife  leaped  for  joy — "  dear  Anna,  is  it 
you  ?" 

And  he  kissed  her  with  a  new  and  lover-like 
ardor. 

"  Ah,"  he  added,  his  face  alive  with  smiles  as 
he  gazed  fondly  upon  her  still  beautiful  counte 
nance,  "  how  the  old  times  and  the  old  feelings 
come  rushing'  back  upon  me  !  I  have  found  my 
wife  a^ain !" 

o 

And  he  gathered  his  arms  around  her  and 
drew  her  in  a  strong  pressure  to  his  bosom. 

"With  so  much  to  be  thankful  for,"  he  said 
as  with  his  arm  around  her  waist  Mr.  Hewling 


2l6  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

moved  with  his  wife  to  a  sofa  in  the  parlor,  and 
sat  down  by  her  side — "  with  so  beautiful  and 
bright  a  world  around  us,  why  should  we  mourn 
for  that  which  is  lost  ?  Why  should  one  sorrow 
quench  the  light  of  a  thousand  stars — nay,  even 
of  the  sun  itself  ?" 

"  Selfish  sorrow  is  always  wrong,"  answered 
Mrs.  Hewling,  "  and  mine  has  been  a  selfish 
one.  In  mourning  for  the  happy  dead  I  have 
forgotten  my  duty  to  the  living.  Forgive  me, 
dear  Henry !  I  should  have  gone  with  you  to 
General  Malcolm's,  and  doubled  your  pleasures 
by  sharing  them !" 

"You  would  have  more  than  doubled  them," 
said  Mr.  Hewling,  with  unusual  warmth  of  man 
ner.  "And  now,"  he  added,  "I  must  put  your 
new-born  purpose  to  the  test.  Will  you  go 
with  me  to  the  opera  on  to-morrow  night?" 

"  I  will,"  was  the  unhesitating  answer. 

"  All  right !"  was  the  response  of  Mr.  Hew 
ling,  made  in  a  tone  that  half  surprised  his  wife. 
She  did  not  know,  and  never  knew,  that  he  had 
only  an  hour  before  received  from  Miss  Light- 
ner  a  note  preferring  a  request  by  no  means  in 
decorous  in  itself,  and  seeming  naturally  to  grow 
out  of  the  brief  renewal  of  their  old  acquaint- 


THE  FOILED    TEMPTER.  21 J 

ance,  yet  really  meant  as  a  link  in  the  chain  she 
was  forging1  with  all  a  woman's  art  to  bind  him 
to  her  will.  Suddenly  the  true  meaning  of  that 
familiarly-worded  note  became  clear.  He  saw 
the  wicked  wile,  and  shuddered  at  the  danger  to 
which  he  had  been  exposed. 

On  the  next  morning  Miss  Lightner  received 
from  Mr.  Hewling  this  note — the  one  she  had 
written  was  returned  to  her  in  the  same 
envelope — 

"An  unexpected  occurrence  will  prevent  my  keeping  my  en 
gagement  with  Miss  Lightner  this  evening." 

"  Who  is  the  lady  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Hewling 
in  the  box  directly  opposite  ?"  It  was  Miss 
Lightner  who  asked  the  question.  Her  com 
panion,  after  gazing  at  the  lady  for  a  moment 
or  two,  said : 

".That  is  his  wife,  I  believe." 

"  I  presume  not.  His  wife  dresses  in  black, 
I  am  told,  and  has  for  a  long  time  rigidly  se 
cluded  herself." 

"  She  has  laid  aside  her  black  for  to-night, 
then,  and  come  forth  from  her  seclusion,"  was 
answered,  "  for  that  is  Mrs.  Hewling  herself. 
What  a  beautiful  woman  she  is !" 

Miss    Lightner  did   not  answer,   but   in   her 

19 


2l8  THE  FOILED    TEMPTER. 

thought  she  said  "yea"  to  the  last  sentence. 
Mrs.  Hewling  was  indeed  beautiful,  and  her 
beauty  had  in  it  so  much  of  a  chastened,  almost 
angelic,  purity  that  she  felt  it  to  be  an  all-pow 
erful  spell  for  the  heart  of  her  husband. 

Little  of  the  music,  little  of  the  fine  acting, 
did  the  foiled  tempter  hear  or  see  during  the 
progress  of  the  opera  on  that  evening.  She 
could  not  keep  her  eyes  away  from  the  lovely 
being  who  sat  with  such  a  womanly  grace  by 
the  side  of  her  husband,  and  ever  and  anon 
leaned  toward  him  lovingly  as  he  spoke  a  few 
brief  sentences  in  the  pauses  of  the  music. 
What  were  her  spells  in  comparison  but  silken 
strands  on  the  limbs  of  a  Samson  ? 


XVII. 

DRIFTING    AWAY. 

|Y  good  Bertha  joins  me  in  the  invita 
tion,"  wrote  an  old  friend  who  lived 
the  easy  life  of  a  self-indulgent  country 
gentleman  some  fifty  miles  away  from  the  noisy 
city,  amidst  the  work  and  din  and  cares  of 
which  I  often  grew  weary.  "  Come,  and  come 
now,  when  the  trees  are  greenest,  the  earth 
in  richest  attire  and  the  air  like  stainless  crys 
tal,"  he  added.  "We  will  ride,  and  sail — I  have 
the  fairiest  of  pleasure-boats — and  spend  the 
days  as  merrily  as  if  the  world  had  never  a 
care  or  sorrow.  Come !  I  will  take  no  re 
fusal.  You  are  wearing  yourself  out  too  fast 
in  that  toiling  city." 

The  invitation  came  at  the  right  moment.  I 
was  drooping  over  my  work  with  slow  hands 
and  failing  ardor. 

219 


220  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

"I  will   beat   Fern    Dale,"    I   wrote,    "  in   a 
week.     Many  thanks  for  your  kind  invitation." 

And  in  a  week  I  stood  face  to  face  with  my 
old  friend.  It  was  twice  twelve  months  since  I 
had  seen  him.  He  had  gained  liberally  in  flesh 
during  the  time,  and  his  face,  though  rounder 
and  larger,  was  fresher  and  younger  in  appear 
ance  than  when  I  last  saw  him.  The  years  had 
not  dealt  so  kindly  with  Bertha,  his  sweet  wife, 
I  was  grieved  to  see.  Her  face  had  grown 
thinner,  though  not  less  beautiful.  It  was  not 
the  beauty  of  old  that  caused  your  eyes  to 
linger  on  her  countenance,  for  the  delicately- 
rounded  outline  and  warm  tinting  were  gone. 
But  there  was  more  thought  and  feeling  there, 
and  a  depth  and  mystery  in  her  eyes  which 
I  had  never  seen  before.  How  singularly  in 
contrast  was  the  broad,  .radiant  smile  that  lit 
up  his  whole  face  with  the  glow  of  sunbeams, 
and  the  flickering  light  that  played  now  and 
then  so  feebly,  yet  so  full  of  angel  sweetness, 
just  around  her  mouth!  She  was  sitting  with  a 
baby  on  her  lap  when  I  entered.  Instead  of 
Uying  it  down  or  calling  an  attendant,  she 
received  me  with  the  nursling  in  her  arms, 
and  HQT.  eyes  passed  every  now  and  then  from 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  221 

mine  to  the  cherub  face  that  lay  against  her 
bosom. 

"Another  baby,"  said  I  as  I  touched  the 
peachy  cheek  with  my  finger. 

"  And  the  dearest  darling  of  them  all,"  she 
answered,  looking  down  upon  it  tenderly. 

"She's  perfectly  bewitched  by  that  baby," 
said  my  friend  as  he  laid  his  hand  in  a  fond 
way  upon  her  shoulder.  "  You  would  think, 
to  see  her,  that  she'd  never  seen  a  baby  in 
her  life  before.  But  come  into  the  library; 
I've  got  a  hundred  things  to  talk  with  you 
about." 

And  he  drew  me  away  ere  I  had  been  five 
minutes  in  the  company  of  his  wife.  I  saw 
that  her  eyes  followed  us,  and  I  fancied  that  a 
look  of  disappointment  was  in  them. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  see  that  Bertha  is  not  looking 
so  well  as  when  I  was  at  Fern  Dale  last  time," 
said  I  as  we  sat  down  in  the  handsome  library. 

"  Not  looking  so  well !"  My  friend  seemed 
a  little  surprised  at  the  remark.  "  You  have 
forgotten.  In  my  eyes  she  never  looked  better. 
She  was  always  slight  and  delicate,  you  know, 
and  rarely  had  much  color." 

"  Perhaps  my  memory  is  at  fault,  but  I  have 

19* 


222  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

a  vision  of  Bertha  with  rounder,  ruddier  cheeks 
than  I  see  to-day/' 

"  That  great  baby  in  her  arms  will  suggest  a 
reason  for  the  change.  It  does  not  come  from 
failing  health." 

My  friend  seemed  so  entirely  at  ease  on  the 
subject  that  I  said  no  more,  but  I  did  not  feel 
satisfied.  We  talked  for  an  hour  in  the  library, 
when  dinner  was  announced  and  we  joined  his 
wife  at  the  table.  She  had  on  a  white  lawn 
dress,  dotted  over  with  small  blue  forget-me- 
nots,  and  plain  lace  cap.  A  slight  warmth  was 
visible  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  as  she  lifted 
them  to  mine  were  full  of  smiling  welcomes. 
She  looked  pure  and  beautiful  as  a  consecrated 
vestal.  I  saw  my  friend's  eyes  rest  proudly  and 
lovingly  upon  her  for  a  few  moments  ere  he 
gave  himself  up  to  the  agreeable  work  that  lay 
before  him. 

I  noticed  that  while  my  friend's  wife  did  with 
a  pleased  alacrity  the  honors  of  the  table,  urging 
one  clish  after  another  upon  her  guest  and  her 
husband,  she  ate  very  little  herself.  The  fact 
must  have  escaped  the  observation  of  my  friend 
or  he  would  certainly  have  ^remonstrated ;  but  it 
was  so  apparent  to  me  that  I  could  not  help 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  22$ 

saying,  as  I  saw  her  playing  with  instead   of 
eating  her  dessert : 

"  Don't  you  eat  anything,  Bertha  ?"  I  had 
known  her  many  years — even  before  her  mar 
riage — and  always  addressed  her  with  the  old 
familiarity. 

"  Oh,  she  lives  on  air !"  spoke  up  my  friend, 
smiling,  "  so  don't  imitate  her  example  while 
at  Fern  Dale.  I  am  made  of  grosser  stuff,  and 
can't  get  on  without  the  substantial  things 
that  make  up  what  are  called  creature  com 
forts." 

Bertha  smiled  in  return,  and  looked  beautiful, 
but  too  ethereal  in  my  eyes. 

After  dinner  we  drove  out,  leaving  Bertha  at 
home  with  her  children  and  domestic  duties. 
Not  a  word  was  said  about  her  going  with  us. 
Our  drive  was  over  breezy  hills  and  amidst 
scenery  of  the  most  charming  character.  I  felt 
new  life  in  all  my  pulses  as  we  went  rushing 
through  the  exhilarating  air.  It  was  sundown 
when  we  returned,  both  of  us  as  keen  for  supper 
as  though  a  hearty  meal  had  not  been  taken 
only  a  few  hours  before. 

The  warmer  glow  that  mantled  Bertha's 
cheeks  at  dinner-time  had  faded,  and  as  I 


224  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

looked  at  her  across  the  tea-table  I  noticed  an 
expression  of  weariness  about  her  eyes  and  a 
languid  falling  of  the  lips  that  made  me  feel  un 
comfortable.  She  asked  if  I  had  enjoyed  the 
ride,  and  listened  with  much  apparent  interest 
to  my  descriptions  of  many  points  in  the  fine 
scenery  through  which  we  had  driven.  I  was  a 
little  surprised,  however,  to  learn  from  a  remark 
she  made  that  she  had  never  looked  upon  it 
herself. 

After  supper  my  friend  and  I  retired  to  the 
library,  where  we  spent  the  evening  alone,  talk 
ing  of  old  times,  discussing  the  merit  of  new 
books  or  lingering  over  the  current  topics  of 
the  day.  Bertha  did  not  join  us.  Once  I  asked 
for  her.  I  had  pleasant  recollections  of  hours 
spent  in  her  company. 

"  Oh,  she's  buried  with  the  children  or  clos 
eted  with  her  cook,"  answered  my  friend,  smil 
ing,  in  his  easy,  good-natured  way.  "  Bertha 
has  become  a  famous  housewife." 

"She  has  too  good  a  mind  for  burial  after 
this  fashion,"  said  I.  "  Bertha  was  born  for 
something  more  than  a  simple  housewife." 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it,"  replied  my  friend, 
with  a  slight  closing  of  his  brows.  "  But  wo- 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  22$ 

men  will  take  their  way.  Her  children  and  her 
household  have  completely  absorbed  her." 

"  Do  you  think  this  absorption  of  her  life  a 
good  one — a  healthy  one — for  either  mind  or 
body  ?"  I  asked. 

"Perhaps  not.  But  there  is  a  wonderful 
power  of  adaptation  in  nature,  as  you  are 
aware.  I  guess  it  will  all  work  out  right.  I 
often  wish  it  were  different;  yyet,  as  wishing 
does  no  good,  I  never  permit  myself  to  get 
worried  over  what  can't  be  helped.  I  am  some 
thing  of  a  philosopher,  you  know,  and  manage 
under  all  circumstances  to  keep  a  quiet  mind. 
If  Bertha  likes  her  way  best,  why  so  be  it ;  she's 
a  good,  loving,  over-indulgent  wife  to  me,  and  I 
won't  force  her  out  of  the  world  she  seems  most 
pleased  to  dwell  in,  though  our  tastes  do  run 
parallel  in  so  many  things,  and  we  might  enjoy 
so  much  together/' 

My  friend's  feelings  lay  close  to  the  surface, 
and  I  saw  his  eyes  glisten  as  he  turned  them 
away  from  me.  He  loved  his  wife  as  tenderly 
as  any  man  who  loved  his  own  ease  and  plea 
sures  as  well  as  he  did,  could  love  anything  out 
of  himself.  She  was  in  his  eyes  all  that  could 
be  wished  for  or  expected,  the  paragon  among 


226  DRIFTING   AWAY. 

women.     He  was  proud  of  her,  very  proud  of 
her. 

On  the  next  morning,  when  I  met  Bertha  at 
breakfast  and  looked  narrowly  into  her  face,  I 
saw  more  of  the  work  of  exhaustion  than  I  had 
noticed  on  the  day  before.  The  pearly  skin  lay 
in  flat  surfaces  on  her  cheeks,  forehead  and 
shrunken  nostrils,  instead  of  showing  rounded 
undulations.  Her  lips  were  very  thin  and 
white.  Her  eyes,  large,  dark  and  lustrous, 
shone  out  upon  you  from  a  farther  distance  in 
their  shadowy  orbits.  She  had  no  appetite,  and 
only  made  a  feint  of  eating,  as  I  could  see, 
while  her  husband  piled  away  the  steak,  muffins 
and  omelet  in  a  most  liberal  fashion,  and  kept 
himself  so  busy  at  this  pleasant  work  as  to  per 
mit  his  wife's  abstemiousness  to  escape  obser 
vation. 

"  You  don't  look  very  well  this  morning," 
said  I,  feeling  really  concerned. 

Bertha  smiled  faintly  as  her  husband  turned 
a  look  of  inquiry  upon  her  face,  and  answered : 

"  My  head  aches  a  little ;"  and  then  added, 
"  I  hope  my  fretting  baby  didn't  keep  you 
awake.  I  don't  know  what  ailed  him.  He 
didn't  sleep  for  an  hour  at  a  time  all  night. 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  22/ 

y 

Husband  had  to  go  into  another  room.  He 
can't  bear  loss  of  rest." 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  must  have  my 'regular 
sleep.  How  these  women  manage  to  worry 
night  after  night  with  their  babies,  up  and  down 
at  all  hours,  is  more  than  I  can  understand.  It 
would  kill  me." 

Bertha  coughed  slightly,  cleared  her  throat, 
and  coughed  again  two  or  three  times.  There 
was  a  sound  in  the  cough  that  was  unpleasant 
to  my  ears.  I  glanced  toward  my  friend  to  see 
how  it  affected  him,  but  he  had  not  appeared  to 
notice  it. 

"And  kills  the  mothers  sometimes,"  I  ven 
tured  to  remark. 

My  friend  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  or  two, 
as  if  I  had  disturbed  him  slightly,  and  then  went 
on  with  his  breakfast.  I  noticed  the  cough 
again  once  or  twice  during  the  meal. 

After  breakfast  my  friend  and  I  retired  alone 
to  the  library,  leaving  Bertha  to  her  maternal 
and  household  cares.  A  sail  on  the  river  which 
ran  along  one  side  of  my  friend's  estate,  and  in 
that  "fairiest  of  pleasure-boats  "  about  which  he 
had  written  to  me,  was  to  be  our  forenoon's 
occupation.  After  spending  an  hour  or  two  in 


228  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

the  library,  talking  and  reading,  we  went  down 
to  the  river,  my  friend  carrying  a  lunch-basket 
which  Bertha  had  placed  in  his  hand. 

"Why  can't  you  go  with  us?"  I  asked  as  I 
looked  into  her  fading  face. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  half  turned  it  to 
ward  the  door  from  which  she  had  stepped  into 
the  portico  to  give  her  husband  the  basket,  thus 
indicating  that  duty  must  go  before  pleasure. 

"  It's  no  use  to  invite  her,"  said  my  friend,  in 
what  struck  me  as  a  light  and  careless  manner. 
"  She  never  goes  anywhere.  Leave  her  with 
her  babies  and  her  servants ;  she  is  happiest 
among  them." 

I  stood  nearest  to  Bertha  when  this  was  said, 
and  could  not  have  been  mistaken  in  the  sound 
that  reached  me :  it  was  a  faint  sio;h. 

o 

"There's  something  wrong  here,"  said  I  to 
myself  as  we  walked  toward  the  river.  "  A  life 
is  wasting  rapidly  away,  and  no  suspicion  of  the 
fact  seems  to  have  been  awakened.  My  friend 
is  either  very  selfish  or  very  blind.  How  can 
he  look  into  his  own  ruddy  face,  as  it  stands 
each  day  reflected  to  him  in  his  mirror,  and  then 
look  upon  that  pale,  shadowy,  fleeting  counte 
nance,  and  not  feel  the  truth?" 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  22g 

A  week  at  Fern  Dale  confirmed  all  my  first 
impressions  as  to  the  rapidly- failing  condition  of 
Bertha.  And  yet  my  friend  showed  no  anxiety, 
no  dim  consciousness  even,  of  the  peril  in  which 
his  wife  stood.  "  How  can  he  gaze  into  that 
pale,  thin  face,"  I  would  ask  myself  over  and 
over  again,  "  and  not  take  the  warning  that  na 
ture  gives  ?  Was  his  own  enjoyment  of  mere 
sensuous  life  so  great  that  he  could  not  under 
stand  a  condition  like  Bertha's  ?  He  loved  her, 
nay,  almost  idolized  her,  and  when  I  would 
hint  occasionally  in  a  concerned  way  my  fears 
touching  her  health,  he  would  regard  me  with  a 
vague,  bewildered  countenance,  as  if  I  were 
troubling  him  with  the  shadow  of  some  far-off 
evil.  It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  the 
evil  was  at  his  door. 

One  morning  Bertha  did  not  make  her  ap 
pearance  as  usual  at  the  breakfast-table.  On 
asking  for  her,  my  friend  answered  that  she  had 
been  up  most  of  the  night  with  her  baby,  and 
was  too  much  indisposed  to  rise. 

"  Nothing  serious  ?"  I  remarked. 

"  Oh  no,"  he  answered.  "  She  often  has  such 
spells.  We  shall  see  her  at  dinner-time,  as 
usual,  only  looking  a  little  paler,  perhaps." 


20 


230  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

"  Only  a  little  paler !  That  must  be  a  death 
like  pallor,"  I  said  to  myself. 

This  morning  we  were  to  have  a  sail  on  the 
river.  Soon  after  breakfast  we  went  to  the 
boat-house  and  unmoored  the  fairy  bark  in 
which  we  had  already  spent  so  many  pleasant 
hours  together.  '  As  she  glided  gently  out,  like 
a  bird  floating  on  the  buoyant  water,  through 
some  mishap  the  light  cord  by  which  my  friend 
held  her  slipped  from  his  hand,  and  she  passed 
from  his  reach  in  a  moment  out  into  the  current, 
and  commenced  drifting  away.  My  friend  be 
came  instantly  excited,  and  showed  great  anx 
iety  about  the  boat.  His  face  flushed,  his  eyes 
dilated,  all  his  movements  were  hurried  and  dis 
turbed.  He  ran  here  and  there  in  an  incohe 
rent  manner,  and  appeared  for  some  moments  to 
lose  all  self-possession.  At  last,  catching  at  a 
small  coil  of  rope,  he  tied  a  stone  to  one  end 
of  it  and  gave  me  the  other  end  to  hold,  then 
throwing  the  stone  with  all  his  strength  it  fell 
into  the  boat.  Eagerly  taking  the  rope  from 
my  hand,  he  drew  on  it  until  the  slack  was  in. 
Now  came  the  moment  of  suspense.  The  boat 
was  moving  steadily  with  the  current ;  should 
the  stone  not  obtain  a  firm  anchorage  inside, 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 

* 

but  release  itself  and  draw  over  the  gunwale, 
the  little  vessel  would  float  beyond  our  present 
means  of  rescue.  But  the  expedient  proved 
successful.  The  stone  held  with  sufficient  tena 
city  to  overcome  the  pressure  of  the  current, 
and  soon  the  pleasure-boat  came  floating  to  our 
•outstretched  hands. 

"  Safe !"  exclaimed  my  friend  as  he  grasped 
the  side  of  his  pet  with  eager  fondness.  "  How 
careless  -I  was !"  he  added  as  he  stepped 
over  the  side  and  commenced  adjusting  the 
sail. 

"  You  could  easily  have  recovered  her  again," 
said  I,  "  even  if  she  had  drifted  away  a  mile  or 
so  before  a  row-boat  could  be  procured  in  which 
to  go  after  her." 

"Oh  yes,"  he  replied,  "but  I  didn't  think  of 
that.  I  was  only  conscious  that  my  beauty  was 
drifting  away  beyond  my  reach.  Don't  laugh 
at  me,  but  I  have  a  real  affection  for  this 
boat." 

Soon  we  were  moving  away  over  the  rippling 
water  under  the  pressure  of  a  gentle  breeze, 
my  friend  every  now  and  then  referring  to  the 
little  incident  I  have  mentioned. 

"You    don't  know,"   he   said    as  we    floated 


232  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

into  a  sheltered  cove  where  the  wind  no  longer 
laid  its  soft  cheek  against  our  snowy  sail  that 
hung  loosely  against  the  reed-like  mast,  "how 
that  little  peril  of  my  boat  disturbed  me,"  again 
alluding  to  the  circumstance. 

I  looked  at  him  without  answering 

o 

"  You  are  sober,"  he  remarked.  "  What 
thoughts  are  shadowing  your  mind?" 

"Thoughts  that  concern  you.  Shall  I  let 
them  come  into  speech?"  I  said,  after  a  moment 
of  silence. 

"  By  all  means,  my  friend.     Don't  hesitate." 

He  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  me  anx 
iously. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  I,  "of  a  far  more  pre 
cious  thing  that  is  drifting  from  you,  steadily 
drifting,  and  getting  more  distant  every  day, 
and  yet  you  heed  it  not." 

"  I  don't  understand  you."  He  looked  be 
wildered. 

"  Bertha."     I  merely  uttered  the  name. 

He  grew  pale  instantly. 

"  Bertha  is  drifting  from  you,"  said  I,  "  and 
unless  you  stretch  forth  a  hand  to  save  her 
right  speedily,  she  will  pass  out  of  your  reach." 

He  let  the  rudder,  which  he  had  been  hold- 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  233 

ing,  slip  from  his  grasp,  and  leaned  with  a 
frightened  look  toward  me. 

"  Why  do  you  say  this  ?"  he  asked,  in  a 
breathless  manner. 

"  Because  it  so  appears  to  my  eyes.  Bertha 
has  failed  sadly  since  I  saw  her  last.  All  her 
color  has  departed,  and  all  the  fine  roundness 
of  face  and  limbs  has  wasted  away.  She  eats 
nothing,  comparatively,  yet  is  taxed  with  duties 
that  would  wear  out  a  strong  man.  You,  with 
your  vigorous  health,  could  not  endure  them." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?"  asked  my  friend,  with 
pale  alarm  in  his  face.  My  few  sentences  had 
startled  him  from  a  pleasant  life-dream.  "  She 
will  bury  herself,  as  you  see.  What  can  I  do  ?" 
he  repeated. 

"You  can  stretch  out  your  hand  and  save 
her  before  the  current  that  is  now  floating  her 
away  bears  her  beyond  your'  reach,"  said  I, 
confidently,  "  and  I  take  the  privilege  of  a 
friend  to  warn  you  in  time.  Not  once  since  I 
have  been  here  has  she  shared  our  recreating 
drives  or  refreshing  hours  on  the  river.  She 

o 

does  not  sit  with  us  in  the  library,  flowing  in 
with  our  pleasant  talks  and  making  thought 
more  beautiful,  as  in  other  days,  and  when  we 


234  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

meet  her  at  meal-times,  looking  so  pale  and 
spirituelle,  it  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  mind  and 
body  are  feeble  from  excessive  weariness.  Can 
this  go  on  long  and  her  delicate  organism  not 
give  way  ?  Be  assured  not,  for  the  strain  is  too 
great." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?"  asked  my  friend  again, 
looking  still  more  alarmed.  "  She  is  wedded  to 
these  household  cares  and  enslaved  to  her 
children." 

"  I  have  not  seen,"  said  I,  "  any  attempt  on 
your  part  to  win  her  away  from  them.  There 
has  been  no  remonstrance  against  her  self-sac 
rificing  course ;  no  manifested  concern ;  no  ur 
gent  invitations  to  join  us  in  our  rides  and  ram 
bles — I  speak  plainly,  for  there  is  a  life  at  stake 
— but  a  dull  kind  of  acquiescence.  Now,  if 
you  wish  to  keep  her  long,  all  this  must  be 
changed.  You  must,  at  any  cost  of  effort,  see 
that  she  no  longer  violates  the  plainest  laws  of 
health." 

"  You  have  awakened  me  from  a  dream — a 
dream  which  needed  a  wakening  from,"  said 
my  friend  as  he  grasped  the  rudder  again  and 
headed  the  boat  homeward.  "  Drifting  away  ! 
drifting  away !"  he  added,  in  a  subdued  tone, 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 

a  few  moments  afterward.  "  Yes,  it  is  even  so. 
But  I  will  catch  at  her  receding  garments  and 
hold  her  back." 

At  dinner-time  we  met  Bertha,  looking  worse 
than  I  had  seen  her  since  my  arrival.  I  noticed 
that  my  friend's  eyes  wandered  every  little  while 
to  her  face,  and  that  he  did  not  eat  with  his 
usual  appetite.  After  the  dessert,  and  before 
we  left  the  table,  he  leaned  toward  her  and 
said,  with  a  tenderness  in  his  voice  that  no 
wife's  heart  could  resist, 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  worn  out, 
Bertha.  Last  night  was  a  severe  tax  on  you. 
Have  you  been  lying  down  this  morning  ?" 

"  Part  of  the  time,"  she  answered,  looking 
at  her  husband  gratefully.  It  was  plain  to  be 
seen  that  she  was  not  used  to  such  tender 
inquiries. 

"  This  way  of  life  won't  do,  Bertha,"  he  went 
on.  "It  is  destroying  you.  I  see  you  drifting 
away  from  me " — his  voice  failed  a  little — 
"  and  I  must  put  forth  a  hand  to  draw  you 
back.  Nature  will  not  bear  the  burdens  you 
are  laying  upon  her." 

I  saw  light  coming  into  her  pale  face  and 
love  beaming  out  from  her  eyes  upon  her  hus- 


236  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

band.  His  interest  and  concern  were  genuine, 
and  she  felt  it. 

"  We  are  going  to  take  an  easy  ride  this  after 
noon,"  he  added,  "  and  want  you  to  go  with  us. 
Now,  don't  say  no !" 

I  saw  objection  in  her  face,  and  her  lips 
moved  as  if  she  were  about  putting  her  objec 
tion  in  words.  But  her  husband's  "  Now  don't 
say  no  !"  coming  as  it  did  on  his  warmly-ex 
pressed  interest  and  concern,  changed  her  pur 
pose,  and  she  said : 

"  If  it  will  give  you  pleasure." 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  would  give  me  more 
pleasure,"  replied  my  friend,  with  almost  lover- 
like  warmth. 

There  was  visible  already  a  new  life  in  the 
countenance  of  Bertha.  A  soft  glow  was  faintly 
dyeing  her  cheeks  and  a  mellow  light  temper 
ing  the  unnatural  brilliance  of  her  eyes. 

"  When  do  you  wish  me  to  be  ready  ?"  she 
asked. 

"At  four  o'clock.  We  will  ride  until  six. 
That  will  be  long  enough  for  you." 

It  was  the  Bertha  of  other  days  who  talked 
so  pleasantly  and  looked  so  cheerful  during  that 
ride.  At  tea-time  she  was  another  being  from 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  237 

what  she  appeared  on  the  evening  before,  or 
indeed  on  any  evening  since  my  arrival  at  Fern 
Dale.  The  ride  had  quickened  in  her  mind  a 
new  and  healthier  impulse.  She  was  a  lover  of 
all  things  beautiful  in  nature,  and  this  had  given 
her  a  pure  enjoyment  which  could  not  soon  die 
out.  During  the  evening  my  friend  by  a  little 
management  drew  her  away  from  her  nursery 
into  the  library,  where  we  enjoyed  her  company 
for  over  an  hour.  How  solicitous  my  friend 
was  to  keep  her  mind  interested,  to  give  her 
thoughts  a  new  direction,  to  call  back  old 
themes  in  art  and  literature  that  once  gratified 
her  taste  or  charmed  her  imagination !  She 
felt  the  change  in  him,  and  was,  I  could  see, 
half  surprised  yet  touched  thereby. 

On  the  next  day  she  accompanied  us  in  our 
morning  drive,  and  in  the  afternoon  was  induced, 
after  a  little  persuasion,  to  take  a  sail  on  the 
river.  There  was  an  unmistakable  glow  on 
her  cheeks  as  she  came  back  from  this  excur 
sion  in  fine  spirits,  and  I  noticed  that  she  took 
a  relish  of  tongue  and  ate  two  biscuits  at 
supper-time — an  appropriation  of  food  quite 
beyond  anything  I  had  seen  in  her  case  since 
my  visit  to  Fern  Dale.  • 


238  DRIFTING  AWAY. 

"You  have  caught  her  garments  ere  she 
drifted  quite  away,"  said  I  to  my  friend  as 
we  sat  together  that  evening  in  the  library. 

"Yes,"  he, answered  with  feeling;  "and  I 
will  cling  to  them  as  a  man  clings  to  his 
life !  She  shall  not  get  free  upon  the  waters 
again  through  any  fault  of  mine.  Was  ever 
a  man  so  thoughtless  and  stupid  as  I  have 
been  ?" 

"  Many,  very  many,  are  just  as  thoughtless, 
just  as  blind,  as  you  were,"  said  I ;  "  and  hun 
dreds  of  overtasked  wives — self-tasked,  it  may 
be,  as  in  Bertha's  case — are  '  drifting  steadily 
away  from  mortal  shores  upon  the  sea  of 
eternity,  and  in  a  few  weeks,  or  months,  or 
years,  they  will  be  out  of  the  reach  of  hands 
that  will  clutch  after  them  in  agony  when  it  is 
too  late !" 


XVIII. 
CAN  YOU  AFFORD  IT? 

(HE  question  was  answered  by  a  look 
of  surprise. 

"Afford   it?     I'm    not   sure    that  I 
take  your  meaning." 

The  questioner,  a  lady  in  middle  life, 'smiled 
as  she  responded  in  the  query : 

"  Can  you  afford  the  possession  of  so  costly 
an  ornament?" 

"  Still  in  the  dark,"  said  the  young  man  with 
whom  she  was  conversing.  "  Costly  ?" 

"  Expensive  is  the  better  word,  Thomas.  I 
should  have  said  expensive.  The  original  cost 
won't  be  much,  for  the  article  is  cheap  in  our 
market.  It  is  the  expense  of  maintenance 
afterward  that  should  be  taken  into  consider 


ation." 


"Ah!"     Light  glinted  upon  the  young  man's 
dull  perceptions. 


239 


240  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

T<  You  apprehend  me  ?" 

"  Not  clearly." 

"  In  plain  words,  then,  can  you  afford  to  take 
Miss  Araminta  Brown  for  a  wife  ?" 

"Why  not?"  " 

"  Have  you  counted  the  cost  ?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  May  I  see  your  estimate,  Thomas  ?  Don't 
think  me  officious  or  over-curious.  I'm  an  old 
friend,  as  you  are  aware,  and  old,  true  friends 
stretch  their  privilege  sometimes  when  they  feel 
more  than  usually  interested,  as  I  do  now. 
You've  made  no  proposal  yet  ?" 

"None." 

"  Ah !  I'm  glad  of  that.  So  you  can  retire 
from  the  field  without  dishonor." 

"  Retire  !  I've  not  thought  of  retiring,  Mrs. 
Hardy." 

"A  prudent  soldier  will  retire  and  save  his 
forces  for  successful  encounter  in  another  field 
if  he  sees  the  odds  too  strongly  against  him." 

"  Still  enigmatical !  Am  I  pressing  forward 
to  so  dangerous  a  conflict?" 

o 

"  In  my  judgment,  you  are." 

"  Puzzled  still." 

"The  encounter,  Thomas,  to  which  I  refer  is 


CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT?  241 

your  world's  battle.  Marriage  makes  or  mars 
most  men,  and  I  think  I  have  studied  your  cha 
racter  closely  enough  to  be  satisfied  that  it  will 
make  or  mar  you.  You  don't  want  a  pretty 
doll,  a  bundle  of  useless  accomplishments,  a 
vain,  showy  girl,  a  dainty  butterfly  in  the  world 
of  fashion,  but  a  woman,  for  a  wife.  It  may  be 
all  very  pleasant  to  dance  and  flirt,  to  sit  by  the 
seaside  in  pale  moonlight,  to  time  the  music 
while  your  charmer  sings,  to  talk  of  love  and 
poetry,  but,  my  friend,  these  are  only  as  the 
bloom  on  the  grape.  The  essential  of  life  is  all 
below,  and  the  grape  must  come  to  the  wine 
press.  Think  of  that,  Thomas !  Is  there  rich 
juice  in  the  heart  of  Araminta  Brown  ?" 

A  sober  hue  of  thought  crept  into  the  face  of 
Thomas  Wilder.  He  began  to  comprehend 
something  of  what  was  in  the  lady's  mind. 

"  Life  is  not  all  a  holiday,"  continued  the 
lady.  "The  play  is  short,  and  when  the  cur 
tain  falls  we  go  back  into  sober  and  often  hard 
reality.  The  summer's  airs,  in  which  the  but 
terfly  and  dainty  humming-bird  enchant  us  with 
their  grace  and  beauty,  continue  only  for  a  brief 
season.  The  winters  are  long  and  cold.  What 
of  the  butterfly  and  humming-bird  then  ?  Gone 


242  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

to  warmer  climes  or  dead !  My  friend,  there  is 
no  hope  in  the  butterfly  or  the  humming-bird." 

"I  do  not  hold  the  comparison  good,"  said 
the  young  man  in  reply.  "  Araminta  is  not  a 
mere  butterfly.  She  is  a  girl  of  mind  and  feel 
ing." 

"  Not  much  mind,  Thomas ;  and  as  to  feeling, 
that  may  be  in  the  right  or  wrong  direction. 
But  let  us  go  back  to  my  first  suggestion. 
There  is  a  practical  dollar-and-cent  side  of  the 
question  which  it  would  be  folly  to  ignore. 
What  will  be  the  cost  of  this  alliance  ?  That 
determined,  the  next  query  comes  in  order: 
1  Can  you  afford  it  ?'  I  think  not.  But  this  is 
for  your  decision.  What  is  your  salary?" 

"  Fifteen  hundred." 

"  Liberal,  as  the  times  go  ?" 

-Yes." 

"  Do  you  look  for  an  increase  ?" 

"  No,  but  there  have  been  intimations  which 
lead  me  to  believe  that  an  interest  in  the  busi 
ness  will  be  offered  at  no  very  distant  period." 

"Ah!  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  But 
that  is  a  thing  on  which  no  reliance  can  be 
placed  ?" 

"  None  at  all." 


CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT?  243 

"  So  that  in  estimating  the  expense  of  mar 
riage  the  salary  alone  must  be  taken  into  ac 
count?" 

"  That  alone." 

"  Very  well.  Now,  what  do  you  suppose  it 
will  cost  you  to  dress  Araminta  according  to 
her  present  style  ?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Give  an  estimate,"  said  the  lady. 

"Two  hundred  dollars  a  year?"  He  put  the 
sum  large,  so  as  to  be  sure  of  including  the  out 
side  penny. 

"  Six  hundred." 

"  You're  jesting !"  answered  the  young  man. 

"No." 

"Six  hundred  dollars!" 

"Or  seven,  maybe.  The  safer  estimate  is 
seven.  Shall  I  give  you  some  of  the  figures  ?" 

"If  you  please." 

"Take  your  pencil  and  follow  me.  I  happen 
to  know  the  young  lady's  milliner  and  dress 
maker,  and  am  posted  in  a  few  items.  She  is 
fashionable.  Do  you  know  just  what  that 
means  ?" 

"  I  presume  so." 

"Let  us  see.     The  fashions  change  twice  a 


244  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

year  at  least.  Sometimes  three  or  four  times — > 
four  times  with  the  ultras,  and  Araminta  is  a 
little  inclined  to  be  ultra-fashionable  in  dress. 
It  is  spring,  we  will  say.  Well,  the  wardrobe 
of  your  wife — you  have  married  Araminta — 
needs  replenishing.  And  first,  there  is  a  bonnet. 
Of  course  the  winter  bonnet  won't  do  for  spring; 
and  besides,  she  has  worn  it  so  long  that  she 
hates  to  be  seen  in  the  street.  Now,  what  is 
your  idea  in  regard  to  the  cost  of  a  spring 
bonnet?  Let  me  see/' 

"  I  pay  five  dollars  for  a  hat." 

"  And  gentlemen's  wear  costs  more  than  ladies', 
you  think  ?" 

-Yes." 

"  Which  shows  how  well  you  are  posted.  Put 
down  twenty-five  dollars  for  the  bonnet." 

" You're  jesting!"  Thomas  Wilder  looked 
blank. 

"Just  the  cost  of  her  bonnet  this  spring,  as 
I  happen  to  know.  So  put  down  twenty-five 
dollars,  and  twenty-five  more  for  a  spring  man 
tilla.  Add  forty  dollars  for  a  full-trimmed  silk 
dress — " 

"  Forty  dollars !"  interrupted  Wilder,  in  a 
tone  of  great  surprise. 


CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT?  245 

"And  thirty  for  a  plainer  one.  She  must 
have  two." 

"Well,  I've  got  the  items  down,"  said  the 
young  man,  but  in  a  tone  of  incredulity,  as  if 
his  friend  were  making  sport. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  the  price  of  these  silk 
dresses  high.  Your  mother  wore  black  lustring 
at  a  dollar  a  yard,  and  ten  yards  were  a  full 
pattern,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"Just  my  thought." 

"  So  I  inferred.  You  met  Araminta  at  Mrs. 
Blanchard's  last  week.  We  were  both  there. 
Did  you  notice  the  elegant  dress  she  wore  ?" 

"  Not  particularly.  But  I  remember  that  she 
looked  charming.  I  feel  the  whole  effect,  but 
have  no  eye  for  detail." 

"  That  dress  cost  forty-five  dollars.  You  can 
figure  it  out  yourself.  Fifteen  yards  of  silk  at 
two  dollars  and  twenty-five  cents  a  yard.  How 
much?" 

"Thirty-three  seventy-five,"  answered  the 
young  man,  who  was  quick  at  figures. 

"  Trimming  and  making,  twelve  dollars." 

"Over  forty-five!"  Look  and  voice  expressed 
astonishment. 

"Just  so.     Fashion  plays  into  the  hand  of 
21* 


246  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

trade.  Wide  skirts,  flouncing  and  trimming 
cut  deeply  into  dress  goods  of  all  kinds,  and 
swell  the  mantua-making  bills  enormously  in 
the  eyes  of  those  who  have  to  pay  them.  Let 
us  see:  you  have  provided  two  silk  dresses,  a 
bonnet  and  a  spring  mantle.  What  is  the 
cost?" 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty  dollars."  There 
was  an  unmistakable  depression  in  Wilder's 
voice.  The  thermometer  of  his  feelings  was 
running  down. 

"Valenciennes  collar  and  sleeves,  twenty 
dollars  more.  Lace-bordered  handkerchief, 
eight  dollars.  A  Chantilly  veil,  twelve ;  lace 
parasol,  eight.  Bracelet,  pin  and  earrings,  new 
style—" 

"There,  there,  there!  No  more!"  and  the 
young  man  crumpled  the  piece  of  paper  on 
which  he  had  been  figuring,  and  thrust  his  gold 
pencil  into  his  pocket  with  an  air  of  despera 
tion. 

"You  think  me  trifling?"  said  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  If  you  are  in  earnest,  I  am  all  at  sea,"  was 
answered. 

"  Better  be  at  sea  in  a  tight  ship  than  too 
near  the  breakers  on  a  coast  like  this,  my 


CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT?  247 

friend.  It  is  just  as  I  say.  The  cost  of  main 
taining  the  luxury  of  a  fashionably-dressed  wife, 
however  desirable  the  article  may  be,  is  not 
within  the  range  of  your  ability.  Another  item 
which  must  be  considered  is  the  summer-tour 
item.  Araminta  goes  to  Saratoga  and  Newport, 
as  you  are  aware.  The  cost  of  an  extra  outfit 
will  not  fall  below  one  hundred  dollars,  and  the 
expense  of  the  thing — you  will  have  to  join 
her  for  a  part  of  the  season  at  least — cannot 
safely  be  entered  under  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars." 

"  It  doesn't  follow,"  answered.  Wilder,  making 
a  feeble  attempt  to  rally  from  the  effects  of  these 
astounding  intimations  which  came  marshaling 
their  forces  under  the  guise  of  hard  facts,  "that 
my  wife  must  go  to  Newport  and  Saratoga  and 
sport  the  wardrobe  of  a  duchess.  The  woman 
who  marries  me  must  adapt  herself  to  my  cir 
cumstances.  Again,  if  the  cost  of  furnishing 
Araminta  is  so  great,  how  does  her  father  main 
tain  himself?  His  business  is  only  of  moderate 
range,  and  he  has  four  daughters  in  society.  I 
think  there  must  be  some  exaggeration  in  your 
estimates." 

"  Mr.  Brown  has  failed  in  business  twice,  to 


248  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

my  certain  knowledge,  within  the  past  fifteen 
years,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  I  remember,  now,  that  he  was  in  trouble 
about  five  years  ago,"  returned  Wilder. 

"  When  he  got  a  settlement  with  creditors  at 
forty  cents  on  the  dollar,  as  I  had  certain  infor 
mation  at  the  time." 

"  Hu-m-m."  The  young  man  dropped  his 
eyes  to  the  floor  and  sat  musing  for  some  time. 
"Failed  twice?"  He  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  Yes,  twice,  and  may  have  to  do  it  once  or 
twice  more  ere  getting  these  four  expensive 
daughters  off  his  hands,  who  are  fitly  educated 
for  taking  their  husband,  if  they  succeed  in  cap 
turing  foolish  young  men  who  have  their  own 
way  in  the  world  to  make — your  case,  Thomas 

— along1  the  hard  road  of  anxious  care,  incessant 

• 
toil  and  sharp  humiliation  which  their  father  has 

trod  and  is  still  treading.  He  never  goes  to 
Saratoga  or  Newport.  You  did  not  find  him 
there  last  year?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  the  year  before?" 

Wilder  shook  his  head. 

"  He  must  stay  at  home  and  '  financier/  as 
you  men  call  it,  through  all  the  d'all,  hot  sum- 


CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT?  249 

mer  months,  in  order  to  keep  off  the  disaster 
of  failure  which  hangs  ever  over  his  head  like 
the  naked  sword  of  Damocles." 

Wilder  looked  down  at  the  floor  again  and 
sat  without  replying. 

"  Can  you  afford  the  expense  ?"  inquired  his 
maternal  friend. 

"I'm  afraid  not."  There  was  a  depressed  ail 
about  the  young  man.  Araminta  Brown,  ar 
rayed  in  the  fine  feathers  that  make  a  fine  bird, 
had  captivated  his  fancy — nay,  more,  she  had 
qualities  wrhich,  under  better  training  and  influ 
ences,  would  have  given  a  preponderating  side  to 
her  character,  and  these  Wilder  had  recognized. 

After  leaving  Mrs.  Hardy,  he  went  home  and 
in  sober  communion  with  himself  reconsidered 
the  whole  question.  To  advance  or  recede — that 
must  be  decided  now.  For  a  time  he  argued 
against  his  friend,  Mrs.  Hardy,  and  doubted  the 
fairness  of  her  estimate  touching  the  cost  of 
dressing  a  lady  who  followed  in  the  wake  of 
fashion ;  then  her  character  for  sincerity  and 
truth  weighed  on  the  other  side,  and  certain 
considerations  which  she  had  presented  loomed 
up  into  grave  importance. 

Still  in  doubt  and  perplexity,  still  undecided, 


25O  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

was  our  young  friend  when  tired  nature  bore 
him  away  into  dreamland,  but  did  not  remove 
from  thought  the  subject  on  which  it  dwelt  so 
intently.  He  was  with  Araminta,  and  more 
charmed  by  his  charmer  than  ever.  They 
were  walking  in  a  garden  among  flowers,  she  in 
colors  decked  as  gayly  as  the  children  of  spring 
and  summer,  and  with  breath,  to  her  lover,  as 
perfume  laden  as  theirs.  Then  they  were  pass 
ing  down  the  city's  crowded  streets,  and  ever 
and  anon  paused  to  admire  the  beautiful  things 
displayed  in  windows.  A  splendid  bracelet  at 
tracted  Araminta's  attention,  and  she  uttered  a 
desire  to  become  its  possessor.  They  entered 
the  store,  and  soon  the  brilliant  thing  was  glit 
tering  on  her  wrist.  Fifty  dollars  was  the  price. 
As  Wilder  took  the  money  from  his  purse  and 
was  handing  it  to  the  jeweler,  a  pair  of  stern 
eyes  looked  into  his.  The  jeweler  was  trans 
formed  into  one  of  his  employers,  and  the  ex 
pression  of  his  eyes  made  his  heart  sink. 

"  She  is  your  wife  ?"  said  the  employer. 

In  one  of  the  usual  kaleidoscope  changes  that 
accompany  dreams,  our  friend  found  himself  a 
moment  afterward  at  his  desk  deep  in  the  mys 
teries  of  accounts  and  business.  He  was  aware 


CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT?  251 

of  voices  near  him  in  conversation,  and  under 
stood  that  he  was  the  subject  of  discourse. 

"  Shall  we  take  him  into  the  firm  ?" 

Almost  breathlessly  he  waited  for  the  answer. 
It  came  in  these  words : 

"  No,  that  would  be  imprudent.  His  mar 
riage  with  an  extravagant  girl  will  involve  him 
in  expenses  beyond  the  dividend  his  interest 
would  yield.  Debt  and  temptation  must  follow, 
and  we  know  where  they  lead.  I'm  sorry,  but 
the  step  cannot  be  taken." 

"  His  salary  will  not  support  him  now,"  re 
marked  the  first  speaker. 

"  Of  course  it  will  not." 

"What  then?  Will  it  be  debt  and  tempta 
tion  ?" 

"  Can  it  be  anything  else  ?"  was  the  response. 

"  Then  is  it  safe  to  retain  him  as  clerk  ?" 

"  I  think  not." 

The  answer  came  with  such  a  shock  upon  the 
dreamer  that  he  awoke.  Starting  to  his  feet,  he 
crossed  the  room  two  or  three  times  before  his 
bewildered  thoughts  were  clear. 

o 

"  Only  a  dream,"  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  of 
relief,  as  he  sat  down  again  at  the  table  from 
which  he  had  arisen  and  recalled  in  each  minute 


252  CAN   YOU  AFFORD   IT? 

particular  the  vision  which  had  haunted  his  im 
agination.  "Only  a  dream,"  he  repeated,  "but 
how  full  of  warning !" 

Did  he  marry  Araminta  Brown  ?  The  ques 
tion  now  put  in  sober  earnest,  "  Can  I  afford 
it  ?"  received  such  an  emphatic  "  No  "  that  the 
argument  closed  and  was  never  opened  again. 
Araminta  has  been  consoled  by  another  lover, 
who  may  become  her  husband,  but  we  pity  the. 
husband  unless  his  coffers  are  deep,  and  even 
then,  should  he  happen  to  possess  a  heart,  he 
will  find  that  he  has  given  gold  for  tinsel. 


XIX. 


THE  MEREST  TRIFLE. 

BRIEF  passage  at  arms — half  in  sport, 
half  in  earnest — then  the  young  hus 
band  went  away  to  his  office  forgetful 
of  the  parting  kiss.  The  heightened  color  of 
Mrs.  Orton's  face  gradually  toned  down  until 
the  usual  warmth  was  lost. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  see  this,"  said  Aunt  Jane, 
speaking  frankly.  She  was  on  a  visit  to  her 
niece.  Both  look  and  voice  were  serious. 

"To  see  what,  aunty?"  A  flush  of  surprise 
lit  up  the  countenance  of  Mrs.  Orton,  that  had 
been  faintly  shadowed  a  moment  before. 

"  Little  disagreements  between  you  and  your 
husband — petty  disputes,  fault-findings,  cavil- 
ings  over  unimportant  things." 

"  Why,  aunty  !"  The  color  came  back  to  Mrs. 
Orton's  face. 

"Yesterday  morning  I    noticed    that    Henry 


22 


253 


254  THE   MEREST  TRIFLE. 

kissed  you  before  he  went  away.     That  little 
tenderness  was  omitted  this  morning.     Why  ?" 

The  niece  did  not  answer. 

"  Words  are  things,  my  dear,"  resumed  Aunt 
Jane,  "  and  if  there  is  any  hardness  in  them, 
they  hurt.  Love  doesn't  try  to  hurt  unless  in 
defence  of  its  object — no,  not  even  in  sport." 

"Why,  aunty !  You  are  making  a  great  deal 
out  of  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Orton,  almost  in 
clined  to  be  offended.  "We  often  talk  so  to 
each  other,  but  don't  mean  anything.  It's  our 
way." 

"I'm  sorry  that  you  have  fallen  into  so  bad  a 
way,  Helen.  The  error  is  a  serious  one,  and 
may  lead  to  the  most  unhappy  consequences. 
You  lost  love's  tender  sign  this  morning  just 
because  of  this  way,  and  I  think,  if  you  look 
down  into  your  consciousness,  you  will  find 
some  unpleasant  things  there  which  but  for 
this  way  could  not  have  existed.  Henry  made 
one  or  two  rather  sharp  accusations,  at  which  I 
saw  your  cheeks  redden  and  your  eyes  flash." 

"All  fancy,  Aunt  Jane." 

"  No.  When  he  said  that  self-will  made  you 
blind,  either  his  accusation  or  his  manner  touched 
the  quick  of  your  feelings,  and  the  keenness  of 


THE  MEREST  TRIFLE.  2$$ 

voice  with  which  you  answered,  'All  men  are 
tyrants  at  heart,  and  have  a  name  for  whatever 
opposes  them ;  in  my  case  it  is  self-will/ 
showed  that  you  meant  to  hurt  him  in  return. 
And  you  did  hurt  him.  In  consequence,  you 
lost  a  kiss." 

"  That's  a  trifle  !"  said  Mrs.  Orton,  with  forced 
indifference. 

"  Your  heart  and  tongue  do  not  accord  in  this 
declaration,  Helen.  No,  it  is  not  a  trifle,  it  is 
a  serious  thing:  it  is  the  beginning  of  aliena 
tion." 

The  ear  of  Helen  detected  a  disturbed  thrill 
in  the  tones  of  Aunt  Jane's  voice  which  seemed 
rather  a  response  to  some  memory  than  the 
effect  of  any  present  cause.  She  did  not  reply. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  shadow  were  creeping  into  the 
room.  Aunt  Jane,  on  closing  the  last  sentence, 
had  dropped  her  eyes,  and  she  was  losing  her 
self  in  thought — not  pleasant  thought,  as*  could 
be  seen. 

"  Don't  think  anything  more  about  it,  aunty," 
said  Mrs.  Orton,  with  affected  cheerfulness.  "  It 
isn't  just  right,  I  will  acknowledge.  A  bad 
habit,  of  which  we  must  break  ourselves ;  but 
you  must  make  a  great  deal  of  allowance  for 


256  THE   MEREST  TRIFLE. 

us,  as  we  are  only  children  yet,  you  know,  and 
children  are  willful  sometimes." 

"  No,  dear,  not  children,  but  of  rational  age. 
The  substance  of  your  mind  is  hard  enough  to 
take  enduring  impressions,  and  I  warn  you 
solemnly  to  take  care  what  kind  of  impressions 
are  suffered  to  be  made." 

"  Oh,  why  will  you  be  so  serious,  aunty  !  It's 
the  most  trifling  thing  in  the  world.  Henry  and 
I  understand  each  other  perfectly.  The  fact  is, 
we  enjoy  these  little  tete-a-tetes  now  and  then. 
They  make  a  pleasant  variety.  We  must  have 
things  spicy  and  pungent  occasionally,  or  we 
would  lose  our  taste  for  common  good." 

"  So  I  thought  once,  but — "  Aunt  Jane 
checked  herself.  A  little  while  afterward  she 
looked  up  at  her  niece  and  said : 

"  Helen,  did  you  never  hear  from  your  mo 
ther  about  my  early  life  ?" 

"  Mother  has  never  spoken  of  it,"  replied 
Mrs.  Orton. 

"  She  was  always  considerate,  always  prudent, 
a  wiser  and  better  woman  than  your  aunt, 
Helen,  and,  more  than  that,  happier.  The  cur 
rents  of  her  life  have  run  smoothly,  and  why? 
Chiefly  because  she  was  not,  like  too  many 


THE  MEREST  TRIFLE.  257 

others,  all  the  while  casting  obstructions  there 
in.  You  resemble  me  in-  more  things  than 
you  resemble  your  mother.  I  wish  it  were 
not  so.  Next  to  my  good  wish  must  come 
my  good  deed.  I  will  tell  you  of  my  early 
life — I  will  unveil  the  skeleton  in  my  house 
that  you  may  see  it  and  take  warning. 

"At  twenty  I  was  married — a  light-hearted, 
self-willed,  thoughtless  girl,  in  almost  every 
thing  unfitted  for  the  position  of  a  wife.  My 
husband  was  older  by  six  years,  but  not  superior 
in  mental  discipline.  An  only  son,  he  had  been 
indulged,  mother  and  sisters  yielding  to  him 
for  so  long  a  time  that  he  had  come  to  expect 
others  to  give  way  when  he  asserted  his  will. 
Apart  from  this,  he  was  affectionate,  kind,  hon 
orable  and  intelligent,  possessing  rare  intellect 
ual  powers  and  considerable  force  of  character. 
He  was  worthy  of  a  woman's  love :  he  had  my 
love.  Ah,  if  I  had  been  wise  in  my  love,  what 
sorrows  might  have  been  escaped !  But  I  was 
not  wise — no  wiser  than  you  are,  Helen.  Very 
soon  after  our  marriage,  as  trifling  differences 
of  opinion  arose,  we  commenced  to  wrangle  in 
a  half-earnest  way,  and  in  doing  so  often  hurt 
each  other.  The  faults  and  peculiarities  mutu- 

22*  B 


258  THE  MEREST  TRIFLE. 

ally  observed  were  mutually  declared.  I  was 
often  seriously  hurt  or  annoyed  by  what  my 
husband  said  in  these  frequent  contests,  and  he 
as  frequently  showed  anger  or  pain.  We  were 
not  always  careful  in  our  speech  to  each  other 
before  people,  but  oftener,  then,  took  occasion 
to  say  the  hardest  things.  The  way  in  which 
you  spoke  to  Henry  this  morning  startled  me, 
it  was  so  like  what  I  had  done  to  my  cost  many 
sorrowful  years  ago. 

"  We  had  been  married  just  one  year.  The 
period  had  not  been  the  happiest  of  my  life.  I 
was  disappointed  in  my  husband.  His  conduct 
toward  me  was  far  from  being  what  I  had  an 
ticipated.  He  was  not  tender,  and  conciliating, 
and  forbearing,  as  in  the  beginning.  He  lost 
temper  with  me  easily,  and  when  I  found  fault 
with  him,  as  was  too  often  the  case,  rarely  failed 
to  answer  sharply.  There  was  danger  in  my 
path,  but  I  did  not  see  it.  Blindly  I  moved  to 
my  fate,  and  there  was  no  one  to  warn  me  as  I 
am  now  warning  you.  If  I  had  been  gentle 
and  conciliatory,  if  I  had  ruled  my  own  spirit, 
denied  myself  the  indulgence  of  self-will  and 
unwomanly  fretfulness  toward  my  husband 
when  his  conduct  did  not  suit  my  temper, 


THE  MEREST  TRIFLE.  2$$ 

this   desolation   of   my   life   would   have   been 
avoided. 

"  One  morning  we  sat  down  together  at  the 
breakfast-table.  We  had  been  to  a  large  party 
on  the  previous  night.  My  nerves  were  a  little 
unstrung,  the  effect  of  late  hours  and  a  late 
supper,  but  I  did  not  feel  particularly  out  of 
humor.  The  party  was  referred  to,  and  my 
husband,  speaking  of  a  lady  who  was  present, 
said  that  she  was  the  best  dressed  woman  there. 

*  Not  very  complimentary  to  your  taste,'  I  an 
swered.     I  suppose  that  my  look  and  tone  were 
both  contemptuous,  for  I  was  not  guarded  to 
ward  my  husband.     I  saw  his  eyes  flash  and  the 
color  deepen  on  his  face.     A  keen  retort  flut 
tered  on  his  lips,  but  did  not  fly  off  against  me. 
This  was  unusual,  for  he  was  generally  quick  to 
lift  the  gage  of  battle  when  I  threw  it  down. 
I    felt   that   under    this    repression    there   wras 
strongly    excited    feeling.      Instead    of    being 
warned,  I  was  piqued  at  his  silence.     It  stood 
as  a  sort  of  defiance,  and  without  giving  thought 
or  consideration  as  to  the  result  I  said  sharply, 

*  She  was  the  worst  dressed  woman  in  the  com 
pany.'     'She  was  a  lady  in  her  behavior  to  her 
husband/  was  the  answer  I  received  in  a  tone 


26O  THE  MEREST  TRIFLE. 

that  left  me  in  no  doubt  touching  the  applica 
tion  of  his  words. 

"  Dear  Helen,  if  in  that  moment  I  had  lost 
the  gift  of  speech,  it  had  been  well,  for  I  did 
not  know  the  art  of  using  it  aright.  I  became 
very  angry.  '  Her  husband  is  a  gen — '  But 
I  caught  the  word  ere  it  dropped  into  full  ex 
pression.  It  might  almost  as  well  have  been 
uttered.  'There  are  some  things  that  I  will  not 

o 

take  from  man  or  woman,'  came  slowly  from  his 
lips.  I  noticed  that  his  face  had  grown  pale. 
'Guard  your  own  lips  if  you  expect  others  to 
be  especially  guarded,'  was  my  cold  retort. 
There  was  silence  for  a  little  while.  My  hus 
band  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  sat  in  a 
strange  brooding  way  for  almost  a  minute. 
'  Some  people  are  free  enough  to.  give,  but  they 
can't  take,'  said  I,  breaking  this  silence.  He 
looked  up  at  me  with  a  new  expression  in  his 
eyes  that  gave  me  a  chill,  but  I  did  not  restrain 
myself.  '  I'm  about  tired  of  this  way  of  living.' 
This  sentence  I  threw  at  him  almost  roughly. 
'And  so  am  I,'  he  answered,  rising  from  the 
table.  'It  doesn't  suit  me,  and  never  has  suited 
me.  I  can't  say  a  word  but  I'm  taken  up ;  I 
can't  advance  an  opinion  but  it  is  controverted. 


THE  MEREST  TRIFLE.  26 1 

It's  wrangle,  wrangle,  all  the  while !  Love  may 
lie  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  but  it's  another  kind 
of  love  from  what  I  bargained  for.'  '  I'm  sorry/ 
said  I,  hurt  and  offended  by  language  that 
sent  a  conviction  of  unwifely  conduct  to  my 
heart,  'that  you've  been  so  disappointed.  I, 
too,  bargained  for  something  very  different 
from  what  I  have  obtained.'  There  was  hard 
ness  in  my  voice  and  accusation  in  my  eyes. 

"  THe  look  he  then  gave  me  I  shall  never 
forget.  It  was  not  an  angry  look,  but  full  of 
rebuke,  of  regret  and  of  pain.  He  turned  and 
went  away,  taking  up  his  hat  and  leaving  the 
house  without  once  glancing  back  to  where  I 
stood  in  the  dining-room  door  gazing  after  him 
as  he  moved  down  the  hall.  Repentance  came 
quickly  when  I  found  myself  alone.  What  a 
poor,  insignificant  thing  had  risen  up  into  a 
mountain  barrier  between  us  !  The  lady  about 
whose  style  of  dress  we  had  wrangled  was  noth 
ing  to  either  of  us.  If  my  husband  admired  her 
evening  toilette,  why  should  I  object  ?  Tastes 
differ.  It  was  certainly  his  right  to  say  what  he 
thought  in  so  unimportant  a  matter.  I  grew 
angry  with  myself  as  I  looked  more  soberly  at 
my  conduct.  I  saw  that  I  had  been  weak,  petty, 


262  THE  MEREST  TRIFLE. 

unamiable.  I  cried  for  an  hour,  and  in  my  grief 
and  repentance  resolved  to  confess  my  error 
and  entirely  reform  my  conduct  toward  my  hus 
band. 

"I  was  not  easy  in  mind  all  day.  An  un 
usual  weight  rested  on  my  feelings.  I  seemed 
to  be  in  the  shadow  of  an  approaching  trouble. 
At  the  hour  when  I  expected  my  husband's  re 
turn  I  sat  waiting  for  him,  still  in  the  better 
state  my  repentance  had  wrought.  Love  had 
unfolded  all  her  sweetest  flowers,  and  I  would 
delight  him  with  their  odors.  But  I  waited  for 
him  in  vain.  He  did  not  come.  He  never 
came  back !" 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Jane  !"  exclaimed  Helen,  grasping 
the  old  lady's  arm.  The  shock  of  this  declara 
tion  had  driven  the  color  from  her  face.  After 
a  few  moments  the  aunt  resumed : 

"  Days,  weeks,  months  passed,  but  no  word 
nor  sign  came  from  him.  After  leaving  home 

o  o 

he  went  to  the  store  where  he  was  employed  as 
a  clerk,  and  asked  for  the  amount  of  salary  that 
was  due  him.  Taking  this,  he  went  away,  and 
beyond  that  there  was  no  trace  of  him.  I  will 
not  attempt  a  description  of  what  I  suffered. 
Reason  was  nearly  lost.  Others  blamed  him, 


THE   MEREST  TRIFLE.  263 

but  I  did  not,  for  after  it  was  too  late  to  profit 
by  clearness  of  vision,  I  saw  the  hereditary  and 
acquired  peculiarities  of  his  character,  which 
were  as  a  second  nature,  and  in  regard  to 
which  I  had  conceded  nothing,  but  instead, 
chafed  and  pricked  him  in  the  tenderest  places. 
The  foundations  of  his  character  were  good, 
and  I  might  have  built  upon  them  a  temple 
of  happiness  wherein  to  dwell  secure  amid 
the  fiercest  storms  of  life.  But  I  failed  to 
build,  and  so  have  been  out  in  the  storms  for 
these  many  years. 

"  For  two  years  I  lived  in  suspense.  No 
word  came  in  all  that  time  from  my  absent  hus 
band.  One  day  a  letter  arrived  from  a  city  far 
in  the  West.  The  address  was  in  a  woman's 
hand.  The  writer  was  a  stranger.  She  said 
that  a  man  was  lying  sick  in  her  father's  house. 
He  had  come  over  with  a  party  across  the 
plains  from  the  Pacific  coast.  She  thought  him 
very  ill,  and  that  he  might  not  recover.  They 
had  asked  him  about  his  friends,  and  if  there 
was  any  one  to  whom  he  would  like  word  sent. 
At  first  he  said  there  was  no  one,  but  after 
ward,  as  he  grew  worse,  said  she  might  write 
to  me  these  words :  '  May  God  pardon  us  both, 


264  THE  MEREST  TRIFLE. 

Jane.  We  were  equally  at  fault.  There  is  no 
anger  left  in  my  heart.  It  died  out  long  and 
long  ago.  Forgive  me,  as  I  forgive  you.' 

"  In  less  than  a  week  I  was  in  that  far-off 
Western  city — not  too  late,  thank  God !  to  find 
my  long-lost  husband  alive ;  to  take  his  dying 
head  upon  my  breast;  to  warm  his  lips  with 
burning  kisses ;  to  see  love  in  his  eyes  ere  the 
veil  of  night  dropped  over  them." 

For  a  little  while  the  old  floods  of  feeling 
swept  across  the  heart  of  Aunt  Jane. 

"  I  have  uncovered  my  life  for  you,  Helen," 
she  said,  on  growing  calm  again.  "You  have 
seen  the  skeleton  in  my  house.  Be  warned  by 
the  sad  experience  I  have  known.  Keep  love's 
lamp  ever  trimmed  and  brightly  burning.  Let 
all  these  little  wranglings  cease.  They  mar  the 
present  enjoyment  and  gravely  threaten  the 
future.  Trifles  light  as  air  may  give  occasion 
for  disagreements  of  the  saddest  character.  The 
cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  may  quickly 
cover  the  sky  and  breed  a  desolating  tempest." 

As  the  day  drew  to  a  close,  Mrs.  Orton  felt  a 
shadow  of  apprehension  creeping  over  her. 
What  if  her  husband,  offended  by  the  sharp 
things  she  had  uttered  at  breakfast-time,  should 


THE   MEREST  7^RIFLE.  26$ 

have  determined  to  go  away.  More  than  once, 
in  a  half-serious  manner,  he  had  threatened  to 
do  this  very  thing,  and  she  had  answered,  secure 
in  her  confidence,  "  Go  !" 

Prompt  to  the  usual  hour  his  step  was  in 
the  hall,  and  swifter  than  ever  she  had  gone 
down  the  stairs  did  Helen  fly  to  meet  him. 
The  young  husband  noted  as  a  pleasant  thing 
this  overflow  of  love,  but  never  knew  the 
cause. 

As  it  takes  two  to  wrangle,  all  petty  strife 
ceased  at  once  between  Helen  and  her  husband. 
If  he  was  captious,  or  said  sharp  words,  or  criti 
cised  her  acts  or  speech,  she  answered  pleas 
antly,  and  he  wras  disarmed.  No  long  time 
passed  before  they  were  as  tender  of  each 
other's  feelings  and  as  considerate  in  their 
conduct  as  during  Love's  golden  morning  hours. 
And  why  should  not  this  always  be  so  ?  Love 
has  'better  signs  than  sharp  words,  fault-find 
ings  and  unamiable  banter. 

23 


XX. 


MARRYING    A    BEAUTY. 

iON'T    do    it,"    said    the   old    gentle 
man,  speaking  with  unwonted  fervor. 
"  Take  my  advice,  and  don't  do  it." 
The   fine   ardor  which  had  flushed  my  soul 
was  chilled.     Uncle  Marion  saw  the  change. 

"  Beauty  is  too  often  a  false  signal,"  he 
added.  "  If  all  things  were  in  the  first  order 

o 

of  creation,  beauty  would  be  the  outward  sign 
of  goodness,  but  evil  has  wrought  many  sad 
changes  in  our  world,  and  beauty  may  not  be 
trusted." 

"  The  beauty  of  Florence  Ware  may  be  trust 
ed,"  I  answered,  confidently.  "  There  is  a  very 
heaven  of  innocence  in  her  face." 

"  Love  is  blind,  my  boy — Love  is  blind !" 
said  Uncle  Marion,  with  oracular  positiveness. 
"As  for  beauty,  it  is  only  a  veil,  not  a  representa 
tion." 

266 


MARRYING  A    BEAUTY.  267 

"Cannot  a  beautiful  person  be  good?"  I 
asked,  my  tones  expressing  surprise  at  the 
implied  negation  of  his  remarks. 

"All  things  are  possible/*  he  answered, 
soberly ;  "  but  he  who  trusts  to  beauty  as  the 
sign  of  goodness  will  find  himself  many,  many 
times  bitterly  mistaken.  Goodness  has  her 
signs,  but  they  are  not  in  pure  Grecian  profiles, 
nor  in  white,  queenly  necks ;  they  are  not  in 
brown  eyes  or  pinky  cheeks.  The  face  may 
be  lovely  as  a  poet's  or  painter's  dream,  while 
the  heart  beneath  may  be  full  of  pride,  ambition, 
selfishness  and  impurity.  I  am  an  old  man, 
George,  and  from  the  experience,  observation 
and  suffering  of  many  years  I  warn  you  against 
putting  faith  in  beauty,  and  above  all,  in  the 
beauty  of  Florence  Ware." 

I  had  known  my  Uncle  Marion  as  a  cheer 
ful  old  man — quiet  and  reflective  for  the  most 
part,  but  cheerful.  The  ordinary  disturbing  in 
fluences  that  continually  jostle  most  people's 
equanimity  of  mind  had  scarcely  any  effect 
upon  him.  He  lived  in  a  region  above  their 
influence.  It  was  not,  therefore,  without  sur 
prise  that  I  observed  an  agitation  of  manner 
altogether  unusual. 


268  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

Now,  as  to  Florence  Ware,  a  young  lady  who 
had  recently  come  into  our  neighborhood  from 
a  distant  city  to  spend  a  few  months  with  a 
school  friend,  her  beauty  had  bewitched  me. 
Of  all  lovely  creatures  in  human  shape,  she 
was,  in  my  eyes,  the  loveliest.  Not  only  were 
her  form  and  features  perfect,  but  there  was  a 
grace  in  every  movement,  and  an  indescribable 
charm  and  sweetness  in  her  countenance,  that 
in  my  eyes  expressed  more  than  human  per 
fection.  It  had  never  entered  into  my  heart 
to  conceive  of  her  as  anything  less  than  the 
embodiment  of  all  that  was  pure  and  true  and 
good.  To  be  warned,  therefore,  almost  solemn 
ly,  not  to  put  faith  in  her  beauty,  hurt  as  well  as 
surprised  me. 

"Don't  do  it,  my  boy!"  said  Uncle  Marion, 
after  a  pause,  repeating  the  injunction  made  a 
little  while  before  in  answer  to  something  more 
than  a  jesting  remark  that  I  thought  of  offer 
ing  my  hand  to  Florence.  "  The  poorest  of  all 
recommendations  that  a  young  lady  has  to  offer 
is  her  beauty.  Ten  chances  to  one  if  its  very 
possession  has  not  spoiled  her  for  a  good 
man's  wife.  It  will  be  a  miracle  almost  if  she 
be  not  vain  and  fond  of  admiration.  The  quiet 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  269 

of  home  will  be  irksome,  and  its  common  duties 
distasteful.  Having  feasted  on  homage,  admira 
tion,  flattery,  how  can  she  live  on  the  plain  fare 
that  succeeds  her  withdrawal  from  that  bril 
liant  outer  sphere,  where  her  charms  were  per 
petually  reflected  back  upon  her  from  hundreds 
of  admiring  eyes  ?" 

All  this  did  not  satisfy  me.  There  might  be 
truth  in  the  general  proposition  as  to  the  dan 
gerous  influence  of  beauty  on  a  weak" mind,  but 
the  idea  of  ignoring  beauty  in  a  wife  struck  me 
as  absurd. 

"  I  will  endorse  Florence  Ware,"  said  I,  half 
desperately,  setting  myself  wholly  against  my 
uncle. 

The  effect  of  this  surprised  me.  For  a  little 
while  Uncle  .Marion  seemed  like  one  who  had 
been  stunned.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
floor,  his  brows  drawn  heavily  together,  his  lips 
shut  firmly.  After  a  while  he  drew  a  long 
breath  and  looked  up  into  my  face.  There  was 
a  change  in  him.  The  old  quiet  look  was  gone. 

"  Endorse  no  one  on  mere  appearance,"  he 
said,  "  for  nothing  is  more  deceptive.  I  do  not 
assert  that  the  face  always  lies,  but  I  will  say 
that  it  oftener  hides  than  reveals  a  person's  true 

23* 


2/0  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

quality.  Don't  trust  it,  my  boy !  There  are 
given  more  unerring  signs  than  the  face  ever 
reveals,  except  when  the  soul  is  off  guard.  All 
that  a  man  or  woman  is  will,  under  certain  cir 
cumstances,  betray  itself  in  the  eyes  and  coun 
tenance,  but  you  are  rarely  admitted  to  the 
view.  The  face  you  meet  in  company,  when 
every  outlet  of  the  mind  is  guarded,  is  not  the 
face  by  which  you  may  judge  of  character. 
You  must  see  the  person  at  home,  on  the  street, 
in  business  or  domestic  life.  You  must  take 
the  view  from  many  stand-points,  and  study  and 
compare.  A  prudent  person  will  do  this  before 
entering  into  the  most  ordinary  business  rela 
tions  with  a  man,  and  yet  I  find  you  actually 
meditating  an  offer  of  marriage  to  a  girl  simply 
on  the  credit  of  her  pretty  face  !  You  had  not 
even  so  much  as  heard  of  her  six  weeks  ago. 
As  to  who  and  what  are  her  father  and  mother 
you  rest  in  complete  ignorance,  and  are  just  as 
ignorant  of  the  girl's  disposition  and  character. 
The  bright  eye  and  beautiful  face  are  accepted 
as  credentials  for  everything.  But  only  '  hand 
some  is  that  handsome  does,'  and  my  word 
for  it,  the  chances  are  all  against  the  '  handsome 
does,'  in  the  case  of  Florence  Ware." 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  2/1 

"  If  we  judge  harshly  without  evidence,  Uncle 
Marion,  we  will  in  almost  every  case  judge 
wrongly.  I  am  sure  that  you  are  unjust  to  Flor 
ence.  I  doubt  if  you  have  met  her  twice  since 
she  came  into  the  neighborhood,"  said  I,  with 
feeling. 

"  I  have  seen  her,  perhaps,  as  often  as  you 
have,  George,"  he  answered,  "  and  under  cir 
cumstances  more  favorable  to  observation.  She 
is  very  beautiful,  I  will  own — bewitchingly  so. 
Her  countenance,  when  lighted,  almost  bewil 
ders.  I  never  saw  but  one  face  just  like  it — " 

The  old  man's  voice  suddenly  faltered.  His 
eyes  were  shadowed  by  a  new  and  strange  ex 
pression.  Some  long-buried  memory  had  quick 
ened  into  life.  He  arose  in  a  slightly-agitated 
way,  crossed  the  room  to  a  bookcase,  and  open 
ing  it,  appeared  to  be  searching  for  a  volume. 
It  was  only  a  feint  to  draw  my  attention  from 
his  unusually  disturbed  manner.  I  understood 
this  at  the  time.  He  came  back  after  a  little 
while  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  which  he  laid  on 
a  table  without  opening.  I  was  watching  him 
closely. 

"  George !"  He  faced  round  upon  me  in  a 
quick,  nervous  way.  "  Don't  trust  in  beauty ! 


2/2  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

Don't  let  it  bewilder  you  !     Don't  let  it  betray 
you  as  it  once  betrayed  me !" 

He  stopped,  cast  his  eyes  down  and  sat  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  then  looking  up,  he  forced 
to  his  lips  a  feeble  smile  that  hid  their  sadness, 
and  told  me  this  story  of  his  past  life. 

When  about  your  age,  he  said,  an  advanta 
geous  business  offer  took  me  to  New  York.  I 
became  the  junior  partner  in  a  flourishing  silk- 
house,  and  soon  found  myself  introduced  to  a 
pleasant  circle  of  acquaintances.  One  evening, 
a  few  months  after  my  arrival  in  the  city,  I  was 
at  a  party  where  nearly  all  the  guests  were 
strangers.  In  consequence,  I  was  left  mostly  to 
myself,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  rather  dull, 
when  a  lady  whom  I  knew  came  to  me  and 
said, 

"  I  have  a  charming  young  friend  here  to 
whom  I  must  introduce  you.  I  know  you  will 
like  her." 

A  few  moments  afterward  I  found  myself 
standing  before  the  loveliest  being  my  gaze  had 
ever  rested  upon.  Her  beauty  was  faultless. 
The  tenderest,  sweetest,  brightest  of  eyes  looked 
up  into  mine.  I  saw  before  me  a  countenance 


MARRYING   A   BEAUTY.  273 

in  which  seemed  blended  all  things  pure  and 
good.  Every  line  of  every  feature  seemed  a 
perfect  line  of  beauty,  and  there  was  not  a  tint, 
or  light,  or  shade  in  the  whole  complexion  that 
an  artist  would  have  criticised.  You  smile,  but, 
soberly  speaking,  and  at  this  distance  of  time,  I 
mean  just  what  I  say.  Her  beauty  came  up  to 
my  best  ideal. 

Of  course  I  was  charmed — nay,  more,  fasci 
nated — for  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  an  enchant 
ress.  She  read  her  power  over  me  in  the  ad 
miring,  eyes  that  looked  into  hers.  I  was  too 
fresh  and  young  to  hide  or  dissimulate.  She 
overcame  me  on  the  instant,  and  knew  that  I 
was  entangled  in  the  web  of  her  beauty.  I  say 
"of  her  beauty,"  meaning  just  that. 

She  was  a  blonde,  with  large,  dark  blue  eyes 
and  full,  dark  lashes ;  hair  of  a  soft  chestnut 
brown  or  golden  hue,  as  the  light  happened  to 
fall  on  it ;  skin  of  that  semi-transparent  texture 
rarely  found,  but  always  so  like  a  veil  behind 
which  the  spiritual  body  seems  hiding  from 
mortal  eyes  its-  enchanting  loveliness.  She  was 
just  a  little  above  the  medium  height  in  woman, 
and  being  slender,  looked  tall.  'Every  motion 
was  grace.  I  say  it  now,  after  nearly  thirty 


2/4  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

years  have  passed  since  that  first  meeting.  And 
I  repeat  now,  looking  back  through  those  thirty 
years,  that  she  was  of  almost  faultless  beauty. 
I  was  captivated.  From  the  instant  I  looked  at 
her  I  was  a  worshiper.  She  was  sweet  and 
gracious  in  her  manner,  my  undisguised  admi 
ration  having  proved  the  passport  to  her  favor. 

"  If  her  hand  is  yet  free  it  shall  be  mine,"  I 
said,  as  I  lay  awake  that  night  feasting  my  in 
ward  eye  on  the  charms  that  still  shaped  them 
selves  to  my  imagination.  I  asked  no  question 
as  to  her  hereditary  or  acquired  character,  but 
took  everything  for  granted.  She  must  be 
good,  pure,  loving,  for  were  not  all  these  writ 
ten  in  beauty  on  her  face  ? 

I  had  asked  the  privilege  of  calling  upon  her, 
and  she  had  graciously  consented.  On  the  very 
next  evening  I  was  in  her  presence.  She  wel 
comed  my  coming  in  the  sweetest  manner,  and 
threw  over  me  a  deeper  and  more  bewildering 
fascination.  It  was  only  by  the  exercise  of  per 
petual  self-restraint  that  I  held  myself  back 
from  a  foolishly  precipitate  offer  of  marriage. 
Twice  in  the  week  that  followed  I  sought  her 
presence,  and  was  as  blind  to  any  danger  as  is 
the  moth  while  circling  round  a  blazing  candle. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  2?$ 

With  an  art  the  most  perfect  in  its  simulation 
of  artlessness  she  drew  me  on  and  on,  until 
within  little  more  than  two  months  after  our  first 
meeting  I  laid  my  destiny  at  her  feet,  and  she 
accepted  the  trust  and  became  the  evil  genius 
of  my  life. 

I  was  very  happy.  Heaven  had  no  conceiv 
able  bliss  higher  than  mine.  I  dwelt  in  light 
and  beauty.  And  yet  the  door  of  this  charmer's 
heart  had  never  really  been  opened  to  me  ;  and 
if  it  had  been  opened,  there  would  have  been  no 
room  in  its  crowded  chambers  for  me  to  enter, 
for  they  were  already  full  of  pride,  vanity,  self- 
love  and  love  of  pleasure.  I  might  have  known 
all  this.  If  I  had  been  wise,  prudent,  clear-see 
ing,  as  a  man  ought  always  to  be  when  he  con 
templates  marriage,  I  might  have  seen  that  be 
low  the  gilding  all  was  common  and  poor.  But 
beauty  had  blinded  me. 

For  causes  which  need  not  be  stated  our 
marriage  was  deferred  for  a  year,  and  the  date 
fixed.  In  that  time  some  of  the  gilding  fell  off, 
and  I  had  glimpses  of  things  which  often  made 
me  very  sober.  But  I  wras  so  proud  of  her,  so 
fascinated  by  her  personal  charms,  that  I  came 
quickly  out  of  these  passing  shadows  into  the 


2/6  MARRYING   A   BEAUTY. 

pleasant  sunshine.  If  she  did  love  admiration, 
if  she  were  fond  of  social  pleasures  and  public 
assemblies,  if  her  eyes  were  continually  looking 
out  and  inviting  homage,  if  she  had  winning 
smiles  for  all  the  attractive  men  who  sought  her 
notice,  I  had  still  many  reasons  and  excuses  for 
my  own  satisfaction.  Her  heart,  for  all  this,  I 
said,  was  mine ;  we  were  betrothed,  were  all 
the  world  to  each  other,  and  would  soon  be 
united  in  the  holiest  bonds. 

We  were  married  at  last.  Twice  at  her 
desire  the  appointed  time  was  changed  and 
the  wedding  deferred.  It  did  not  really  take 
place  until  four  months  after  the  period  first 
agreed  upon.  In  each  of  these  intervals  of 
time,  as  it  has  since  been  very  plain  to  me,  she 
meditated  a  breach  of  the  engagement,  and 
only  remained  true  because  ardent  admirers  did 
not  press  their  claims  to  favor  in  formal  declara 
tions  of  love. 

Yes,  we  were  married  at  last.  The  wedding 
was  a  brilliant  affair.  All  that  art  could  give 
to  nature  was  lavished  upon  the  bride.  She 
was  more  like  the  creation  of  a  dream  or  a 
poet's  imaginings  than  one  of  flesh  and  blood. 
And  all  this  wonderful  beauty  was  mine — mine! 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  2JJ 

Vows  were  given,  hands  clasped,  kisses  ex 
changed,  the  benediction  spoken,  and  we  twain 
were  bound  together.  The  long  suspense  was 
over.  What  a  moment  of  bliss  ! 

I  had  been  during  all  this  year  and  a  half 
living  out  of  the  sphere  of  my  own  true  life  and 
dwelling  in  a  region  of  enchantment,  and  all 
this  time  I  had  been  longing  to  get  down  into 
the  real  things  in  which  I  was  to  find  true  enjoy 
ment.  My  prize  gained,  I  wished  to  leave  the 
open  field,  and  bear  it  away  to  the  sanctuary  of 
a  home,  there  to  enjoy  the  blessing  I  had  won. 
My  beauty  was  to  be  my  own  delight — my 
treasure  sacred  to  myself!  Alas!  the  time  for 
awakening  was  not  far  distant. 

How  largely  I  had  counted  on  the  pleasures 
of  companionship  when  the  sweet  maiden  be 
came  my  wife !  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  I  had 
never  in  a  single  instance  been  able  to  draw 
her  into  the  expression  of  an  intelligent  opinion 
about  a  work  of  art,  or  a  book  in  any  of  the 
higher  branches  of  literature.  If  a  reader  of 
history,  she  did  not  betray  the  fact.  She  never 
referred  to  the  leading  poets,  and  if  their  names 
or  best  productions  were  mentioned,  she  smiled, 
but  offered  no  appreciative  response.  But  she 

24 


278  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

was  enthusiastic  over  opera  singers  and  theat 
rical  stars,  and  her  conversation  was  always 
more  of  persons  than  acts,  opinions  or  prin 
ciples.  She  was  a  hero-worshiper,  with  little 
or  no  sympathy  for  heroism.  Actions  were 
dead,  unsympathetic  of  the  past,  but  the  man 
and  woman  were  centres  of  admiration.  She 
could  understand  the  glory  of  position,  but  not 
the  grandeur  of  achievement. 

During  all  the  year  and  a  half  that  intervened 
from  the  time  of  our  engagement  until  we  were 
married,  I  failed  in  every  effort  to  draw  her 
thoughts  into  the  region  of  interest  where  mine 
dwelt.  I  was  the  lover,  the  wooer,  the  worshiper, 
and  so  bent  down  to  the  region  where  she 
dwelt.  But  I  could  not  live  there  for  ever.  I 
was  organized  spiritually  for  life  in  another 
sphere  of  mind.  My  soul  craved  food  of  an 
other  and  more  substantial  quality.  For  a 
year  and  a  half  I  had  lived  a  kind  of  artificial 
life;  had  put  aside  old  habits  of  thinking  and 
feeling;  had  left  my  real  tastes  hungering  for 
appropriate  food;  had  given  up  nearly  every 
thing  essentially  my  own;  had  deferred  on 
almost  all  occasions  to  the  preferences  and 
pleasures  of  a  beauty  so  much  enamored  of 


MARRYING   A   BEAUTY.  279 

herself  that  she  rarely  if  ever  thought  of  con 
sulting  my  wants  or  feelings.  Could  this  last 
after  marriage?  No. 

It  did  not  take  a  very  long  time  to  reach  the 
period  of  awakening.  I  soon  found  that  my 
company  no  more  sufficed  for  my  wife  than  it 
had  sufficed  for  my  betrothed — that  the  home 
of  her  husband  was  scarcely  more  attractive 
than  the  home  of  her  aunt  had  been.  Her  life 
was  in  the  world — in  pleasures,  admiration, 
excitement.  Take  these  away,  and  you  robbed 
her  of  almost  everything.  During  a  few  months 
after  our  marriage  I  yielded  with  a  gradually 
diminishing  grace.  After  that,  seeing  how 
absorbed  she  still  remained,  and  how  little 
interest  she  manifested  in  her  home,  both  duty 
and  feeling  prompted  me  to  lay  upon  her  the 
hand  of  restraint.  I  did  this  as  gently  as  pos 
sible — as  lovingly  as  possible.  But  it  made  a 
strong  ripple  in  the  current  of  her  life.  I  saw 
a  veil  fall  instantly  over  her  beauty.  The  soft 
eyes  hardened  and  the  sweet  face  grew  cold. 

A  chill  went  inward  to  the  very  centre  of  my 
being,  for  I  understood  something  of  what  this 
meant.  I  had  been  studying  her  from  a  closer 
point  of  view  since  our  marriage,  and  was  grad- 


280  MARRYING  A    BEAUTY. 

ually  arriving  at  a  truer  knowledge  of  her  cha 
racter.  Day  by  day  there  had  come  to  me  new 
and  painful  revelations  touching  the  quality  of 
her  mind.  I  had  put  aside  the  veil  of  beauty 
and  looked  into  the  soul,  searching  for  the  real 
things  that  beauty  represented,  but  had  not 
found  them.  Still  I  hoped  they  might  be  there 
— some  of  them  at  least — and  kept  on  searching. 
The  hard  eyes  and  the  cold  face  were  too 
strong  for  me  in  the  beginning.  I  took  off  the 
restraining  hand :  the  ripple  was  gone,  and  the 
current  ran  on  smoothly  again,  but  in  the  old 
channels.  This  could  not  last.  I  am  firm  and 
strong  when  I  see  clearly.  I  had  not  seen 
clearly  for  a  great  while,  for  beauty  had  deceived 
me  into  the  faith  that  it  was  the  sign  of  all  per 
fection.  I  knew,  now,  that  it  only  concealed 
weaknesses  of  character  which  must  be  guarded ; 
a  poverty  of  mind  that  must  ever  leave  me 
hungry  in  companionship ;  an  unkindness  of 
spirit,  when  all  was  not  yielded,  that  must  hurt 
me  deeply  in  every  contact.  But  the  way  of 
duty  grew  plainer  and  plainer  before  me  at 
every  step.  The  hand  of  restraint  was  put 
forth  again,  and  again  the  current  of  her  life 
was  agitated.  She  struggled  against  the  im- 


MARRYING   A   BEAUTY,  28 1 

pediment.  I  did  not  yield.  Then  the  founda 
tions  of  a  separating  wall,  to  rise  up  between 
us,  were  laid.  To  me  she  was  beautiful  no 
longer.  Her  countenance,  so  lovely  to  every 
one,  so  full  of  all  sweetnesses,  so  bewitching 
and  so  bewildering,  was  only  a  transparent  veil 
to  my  eyes,  and  I  looked  through  it,  gazing 
sadly  and  in  continually  increasing  alienation 
on  the  deformity  and  incompleteness  that  lay 
hidden  below.  She  was  so  worldly,  so  ab 
sorbed  in  gayety  and  pleasure,  so  fond  of 
admiration  !  Even  as  before  marriage,  she  was 
in  all  large  companies  a  centre  of  attraction. 
A  light  class  of  young  men  were  continually 
fluttering  around  her,  and  by  her  manner  she 
as  continually  invited  their  attentions. 

This  annoyed,  fretted,  even  angered  me  at 
times.  If  I  had  really  loved  her,  I  would  have 
grown  jealous.  But  I  was  only  annoyed.  Pride, 
not  jealousy,  was  aroused.  I  felt  that  my  honor 
was  touched.  I  was  humiliated,  through  my 
wife's  weakness,  before  the  world.  Men  for 
whom  I  cared  nothing — nay,  disliked — became 
visitors  at  my  house,  dropping  in  at  all  hours, 
day  and  evening,  whether  I  was  at  home  or  not. 
In  public  assemblies  I  was  continually  chafed  by 

24* 


282  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

the  observation  she  attracted.  Men  would  rec 
ognize  and  point  her  out  to  their  companions. 
In  the  intervals  between  acts  or  parts  they 
would  leave  their  seats  and  make  their  way  to 
where  we  were  sitting,  to  be  graciously  received 
by  my  wife. 

Human  nature  endures  to  a  certain  point,  and 
then  rebels.  I  saw  myself  approaching  this 
point,  and  not  without  serious  apprehension. 
As  a  husband,  it  was  but  meet  that  I  should 
object  to  certain  associations  and  familiarities 
that  were  hardly  reputable — even  if  not  danger 
ous — for  a  young  wife.  The  gentle  hand  put 
forth  to  restrain  would  not  do.  This  had 
already  been  attempted. 

Earlier,  by  two  hours,  than  usual,  I  came 
home  one  pleasant  summer  afternoon,  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  nervous  headache.  I  was  al 
most  blind  with  the  pain  that  pierced  one  of  my 
temples.  Entering,  I  passed  to  the  sitting-room, 
then  to  our  chamber,  but  did  not  find  my  wife. 
I  called  her  name,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

"  She's  gone  out  riding,"  said  a  servant,  who 
had  heard  me  call. 

"Out  riding?  With  whom?"  I  spoke  too 
quickly  to  hide  my  astonishment. 


MARRYING  A    BEAUTY.  283 

"  With  a  gentleman." 

"  What  gentleman  ?" 

"  The  one  that  comes  'most  every  afternoon, 
sir.  I  don't  know  his  name." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  I  answered,  endeavoring  to 
put  on  an  air  of  indifference,  and  turning  from 
the  servant,  re-entered  our  chamber  and  shut 
the  door. 

My  whole  being  was  in  a  tremor  of  confused 
excitement.  Some  time  elapsed  before  I  grew 
calm.  My  headache  was  gone. 

"  Out  riding  with  a  gentleman  almost  every 
afternoon !"  I  said  to  myself  when  the  rush  of 
feeling  and  confusion  were  over.  "  What  does 
this  mean  ?  Who  is  the  gentleman  ?  Out  rid 
ing,  and  not  a  hint  of  the  fact  to  me !" 

It  did  not  look  well.  There  was  room  for 
suspicion.  I  could  do  nothing  but  wait  for 
my  wife's  return,  and  I  waited  in  self-torment 
ing  impatience  for  more  than  two  hours,  listen 
ing  to  the  sound  of  every  approaching  vehicle, 
disappointed  a  hundred  times  as  the  rattle  of 
wheels  went  by.  At  last  the  hour  came  at 
which  I  usually  returned  home,  but  my  wife  was 
still  away.  Strange  doubts  and  fears  began 
creeping  into  my  soul.  For  a  little  while  I  was 


284  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

in  most  painful  suspense.  Still  I  hearkened  for 
the  pausing1  of  wheels,  but  no  carriage  stopped. 
At  last  I  heard  the  bell  ring.  Standing  in  the 
hall  above,  I  listened  while  the  servant  went  to 
the  door. 

"  Has  Mr.  Marion  come  home  ?"  It  was  my 
wife's  voice.  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  answer, 
but  stepped  back  to  our  sleeping-room  and 
dropped  down  on  the  bed.  She  came  lightly 
up  stairs,  and  seeing  me,  asked,  in  surprise, 
if  I  were  sick. 

"  I  came  home  two  hours  ago  with  one  of  my 
bad  headaches,"  I  made  answer,  speaking  heav 
ily,  as  though  I  were  still  in  pain. 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  answered.  "  How 
unfortunate  that  I  happened  to  be  out !  I  prom 
ised  Mrs.  Grant  that  I  would  call  on  her  this  af 
ternoon  and  go  over  some  new  music  which  she 
has  just  received  from  Paris." 

"  Subterfuge  !  Falsehood  !"  I  said  in  my  heart 
bitterly.  I  groaned  in  pain,  turning  my  face 
away.  She  naturally  mistook  the  seat  of  pain. 
It  was  not  in  my  head. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  she  asked,  bending 
over  me. 

"  Nothing !"     I  perceived  that  my  voice  was 


.MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  285 

repellant,  and  I  noticed  that  she  lifted  herself 
suddenly  and  stepped  back  from  the  bed. 

"Julia!"  said  I,  rising  up  quickly.  I  was 
moved  by  an  irrepressible  impulse  to  speak. 
She  was  already  half  across  the  room.  It  was 
still  light,  and  I  could  see  her  face  distinctly  as 
she  turned  with  a  start.  Her  look  was  sur 
prised,  and  the  hot  blood  was  already  mounting 
to  her  forehead.  "You  were  out  riding  this 
afternoon.  May  I  ask  with  whom?"  I  had 
dropped  my  voice  so  as  to  control  it,  and 
spoke  calmly,  but  with  seriousness. 

"  Who  said  I  was  out  riding  ?"  She  was  off 
her  guard  and  showed  confusion. 

"  Margaret,"  I  replied,  still  speaking  calmly. 
"  I  asked  for  you  when  I  came  home,  and  she 
answered  that  you  were  out  riding  with  a  gentle 
man.  It  is  only  natural  that  I  should  desire  to 
know  the  gentleman's  name." 

"  It  was  Mr.  Harbaugh."  She  rallied  herself 
with  a  strong  effort,  threw  the  deeper  stains  of 
crimson  from  her  face  and  tried  to  smile  with 
an  innocent  air.  She  was  far  from  being  suc 
cessful.  My  eyes  were  too  keen.  I  had  learned 
to  look  through  all  the  veils  in  her  power  to  lift 
between  me  and  her  real  self. 


286  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

Mr.  Harbaugh!  Why,  this  was  an  old  ad 
mirer,  for  whose  smiles  and  favor,  months  be 
fore  we  were  married,  she  had  turned  half  indif 
ferent  from  mine  !  I  was  jealous  then,  surprised, 
startled,  alarmed,  now  !  Mr.  Harbaugh  !  And 
he  had  been  taking  her  out  riding  almost  every 
afternoon  !  I  was  stunned  for  a  little  while. 

"  If  you  have  any  objection — "  she  began,  read 
ing  surprise  and  displeasure  in  my  countenance. 
I  waved  my  hand  for  her  to  keep  silent.  Ob 
jection  !  And  was  that  all  she  had  to  say  ? 
Objection !  Did  her  perception  of  the  case 
reach  no  farther  than  this  ?  I  wras  dumb. 

She  now  had  time  to  recover  herself,  and  she 
made  all  haste  to  gather  around  her  the  rent 
garments  of  self-control,  and  to  assume  an  atti 
tude  of  injured  innocence.  The  hurt  look,  the 
sad,  tear-filled  eye,  the  quivering  mouth, — all 
these  were  arrayed  in  accusation  against  me. 
But  they  had  no  effect.  I  was  not  to  be  influ 
enced  against  the  logic  of  facts  by  feints  like 
these. 

The  wall  of  separation  that  was  slowly  rising 
between  us  grew  higher  in  the  evening  that  fol 
lowed.  She  spent  the  hours  alone,  affecting  to 
be  deeply  hurt  with  me ;  I  alone,  also,  brooding, 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  287 

accusing,  repenting,  foreboding.  In  the  morn 
ing,  as  I  was  going  out,  I  said  to  her : 

"Julia,  if  Mr.  Harbaugh  asks  you  to  ride 
with  him  to-day,  it  is  my  will  that  you  decline." 

Her  eyes  flashed.  Crimson  stains  burned  on 
her  cheeks  instantly. 

"  Take  care,  sir !"  she  answered,  in  a  warning 
voice. 

"  Take  care !  Of  what  ?"  I  felt  an  angry 
spirit  rising  within  me. 

"  I  am  not  yours  to  command.  Be  pleased  to 
keep  that  in  mind,  sir  !  I  am  your  wife,  yet  still 
a  free  woman — as  free  as  you  are."  Her  eyes 
were  like  darts,  her  face  imperious.  She  drew 
herself  up  in  a  queenly  way,  beautiful,  but  dan 
gerous. 

"As  the  guardian  of  your  honor,"  I  made  an 
swer,  "  I  must  stand  in  the  way  of  its  attaint. 
Your  good  name  is  too  precious.  I  cannot,  I 
will  not,  see  it  shadowed !" 

"  Honor !  Good  name !  Is  the  man  sleep 
ing  or  awake  ?"  She  affected  to  laugh.  But 
the  light  died  quickly  out  of  her  face. 

"  The  young  wife  who,  in  the  absence  of  her 
husband  during  business-hours,  rides  out  almost 
daily  with  a  man  of  leisure,  is  in  danger  of  hav- 


288  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

ing  light  words  spoken  against  her,  and  your 
good  fame  is  too  precious  a  thing  to  be  left  to 
any  risks." 

I  emphasized  the  words  "almost  daily,"  and 
looked  keenly  at  her  as  I  uttered  them.  The 
color,  so  high  a  moment  before,  dropped  away 
from  her  face ;  her  eyes  wavered  under  my 
steady  glance ;  she  turned  partly  from  me  and 
sat  down.  I  did  not  feel  angry.  Pity  was  at 
this  moment  the  stronger  sentiment — pity  for 
the  humiliation  with  which  she  seemed  over 
come. 

"  Remember,  Julia,"  I  said,  with  as  much  ten 
derness  as  I  could  throw  into  my  voice,  "  that  I 
am  wholly  in  earnest.  You  have  been  thought 
less,  that  is  all.  But  public  opinion  will  judge 
of  you  more  harshly." 

She  sat  with  her  face  still  partly  averted,  quite 
immovable,  and  without  any  response.  I  stood 
for  a  little  while  in  doubt  as  to  her  real  state  of 
mind,  and  then  went  away  very  much  oppressed 
in  feeling. 

On  returning  home  at  dinner-time  she  re 
ceived  me  with  a  pleasant  face.  I  could  detect 
scarcely  a  line  of  the  hardness  and  passion  which 
had  disfigured  it  on  the  evening  before. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  289 

"  You  are  indeed  very,  very  beautiful !"  I 
found  myself  saying,  mentally,  as  I  dropped  my 
gaze,  suppressing  an  involuntary  sigh,  from  her 
almost  radiant  countenance.  Of  course,  no 
word  bearing  the  remotest  allusion  to  the  un 
happy  incidents  of  the  previous  day  escaped  our 
lips.  With  a  lighter  heart  I  returned  to  my 
business,  but  instead  of  going  direct,  I  turned 
aside  from  my  usual  course  to  see  a  gentleman 
with  whom  certain  negotiations  were  pending. 
I  spent  half  an  hour  with  him.  As  I  was  leaving 
his  office,  Mr.  Harbaugh  went  dashing  past  in  a 
buggy.  He  did  not  observe  me.  I  kept  him  in 
sight  until  he  turned  a  corner  three  or  four 
blocks  distant.  He  was  going  in  the  direction 
of  my  house !  The  danger  I  had  thought  pass 
ing  away,  was  at  my  door !  I  did  not  hesitate. 
An  omnibus  that  went  within  a  block  of  my 
residence  was  going  by,  and  I  jumped  in.  Hap 
pening  to  be  the  only  passenger,  the  horses 
trotted  on  briskly.  In  twenty  minutes  I  pulled 
the  check-string  and  leaped  to  the  pavement. 
A  few  rods  more  and  I  would  be  in  sight  of  my 
house,  which  stood  just  past  the  next  corner. 
Only  two  or  three  steps  had  been  taken  when, 
sweeping  gayly  around  the  corner,  came  the 


25 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

buggy  of  Mr.  Harbaugh.  Julia  was  sitting  by 
his  side,  her  face  covered  with  smiles.  She 
saw  me,  and  clutching  after  her  veil,  drew  it 
closely  over  her  face.  My  first  impulse  was  to 
stop  the  vehicle  and  invite  her  to  come  down. 
There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  hesitation  about 
acting  on  the  impulse,  and  in  this  brief  lapse  of 
time  the  opportunity  was  gone.  They  went  by 
me  like  a  flash. 

I  stood  still  in  a  weak,  indeterminate  state  of 
mind  for  almost  a  minute.  Then  fearing  lest 
some  one  had  observed  me  and  the  passing  of 
my  wife,  I  started  on.  There  was  no  use  in  re 
turning  home.  The  bird  I  had  been  so  anxious 
to  guard  had  opened  the  cage  in  my  absence, 
and  was  gone.  So  I  went  to  my  place  of  busi 
ness.  A  hundred  things  were  thought  of  and 
conjectured  during  that  unhappy  afternoon — a 
hundred  expedients  for  saving  my  wife  from  the 
danger  that  hung  over  her  determined  on,  and 
then  set  aside  as  doubtful.  I  grew  more  be 
wildered,  felt  more  impotent,  with  ev^ry  pass 
ing  hour. 

I  made  it  a  point  not  to  return  home  until  my 
usual  time,  so  that  Julia  might  have  an- oppor 
tunity  to  get  back  before  that  period  if  she 


THEY    WENT    BY    ME    LIKE    A    FLASH. 


Page*  290. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  29 1 

wished  to  do  so.  I  found  her  in  the  parlor 
with  her  bonnet  thrown  off  and  lying  on  one 
of  the  chairs.  She  came  toward  the  hall  quickly 
to  meet  me.  There  was  a  half-troubled,  half- 
assured  look  in  her  face,  over  which  she  flung 
a  wreath  of  smiles. 

"  Now,  don't  be  angry  !"  she  said,  in  a  coaxing, 
deprecating  voice.  "I  couldn't  help  myself! 
The  engagement  had  to  be  kept.  But  indeed, 
indeed,  there  shall  be  no  more  of  it !  It  is  too 
bad  that  you  should  have  seen  me,  when  I  was 
not  in  heart  going  against  your  wishes  !  I  said 
to  Mr.  Harbaugh  that  it  was  the  last  time  he 
must  call  for  me." 

The  serious  look  did  not  die  on  my  face.  I 
was  too  deeply  hurt  and  troubled — the  more 
hurt  and  troubled  that  I  saw  through  Julia's 
poor  disguise.  That  wife  must  needs  be  a 
good  actor  who  would  deceive  a  husband 
startled  into  suspicion  as  suddenly  as  I  had 
been. 

"  My  strongly  expressed  wishes — nay,  my 
positive  injunction — should  have  had  more 
weight  with  you  than  a  light  and  injudicious 
promise,"  I  answered  with  perhaps  more 
seventy  of  tone  than  I  intended  using. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

She  stepped  back  from  me  as  though  I  had 
pushed  her  away.  But  I  did  not  relax  in  my 
severity  of  manner.  The  affair  was  too  serious 
to  be  lightly  passed  over.  Then  came  the  wet 
eyes,  the  hurt  look,  the  down-curved  and  quiver 
ing  lips,  the  air  of  injured  innocence. 

"  You  should  have  said  that  you  were  under 
promise  to  ride  out  again  this  afternoon.  The 
wife  who  conceals  from  her  husband  anything 
that  he  has  a  right  to  know  acts  unwisely. 
Her  happiness  is  in  peril.  She  is  in  danger 
of  misjudgment.  She  opens  the  door  for 
suspicion." 

She  turned  from  me,  even  while  I  was  speak 
ing,  with  the  air  of  one  wrongly  accused,  and 
walked  slowly  from  the  room.  I  did  not  follow 
her,  but  sat  down  to  think.  An  hour  afterward 
the  tea-bell  rung.  I  sat  still  waiting  for  Julia 
to  come  down.  Nearly  five  minutes  passed, 
and  I  heard  no  movement.  The  bell  was  rung* 

o 

again.  I  went  up  stairs  and  found  her  sit 
ting  by  the  bed  in  our  chamber,  with  her 
face  bowed  down  and  hidden  on  a  pillow.  I 
touched  her,  and  she  started  as  one  rousing 
from  sleep. 

"  It  is  the  tea-bell,"  I  said. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  293 

"Oh,  is  it?     I  didn't  hear." 

She  looked  at  me  for  some  moments  with 
real  or  affected  bewilderment,  then  arose  and 
accompanied  me  down  to  the  breakfast-room. 
There  was  no  conversation  during  the  meal.  I 
think  each  was  so  much  in  doubt  as  to  the 
other's  true  state  of  mind  as  to  be  afraid  to 
touch  on  any  theme  lest  there  should  be  a  jar 
from  some  discordant  string. 

I  remember  that  evening  as  the  most  unhappy 
one  of  my  life — I  mean,  of  my  life  up  to  that 
period.  Julia  sat  for  most  of  the  time  with  a 
novel  in  her  hand,  but  from  stealthy  observations 
of  her  face  from  time  to  time  I  was  satisfied 
that  she  was  taking  little  or  no  interest  in  the 
pages  that  were  turned  at  very  irregular  inter 
vals.  I  also  had  sought  refuge  in  a  book,  but 
there  was  only  the  pretence  of  reading  on  either 
side.  During  that  memorable  evening  I  took 
the  calmest  and  soberest  possible  review  of  the 
whole  ground  on  which  I  was  standing,  and  the 
result  was  a  most  painful  conviction  that  I  had 
brought  a  thirsty  soul  unto  dry  wells,  that  I  had 
built  up  hastily  a  beautiful  palace,  the  founda 
tions  whereof  rested  on  sand. 

The  Julia  of  my  imagination,  the  pure,  tender, 

25  * 


294  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

wise,  perfect  being,  reflected  in  grace  of  form 
and  transcendent  beauty  of  countenance,  I  had 
loved  with  a  sentiment  akin  to  worship.  But 
the  real  Julia,  who  had  come  to  me  so  radiant, 
so  angelic  in  form  and  feature,  from  the  mar 
riage  altar,  I  did  not,  could  not,  love.  Fo-r  one 
of  my  thought  and  feeling  there  was  nothing 
in  her  to  love.  Day  by  day  one  disguise  after 
another  had  fallen,  and  on  that  day  the  last  veil 
to  her  real  quality  had  been  given  to  the  winds. 
I  saw  her  stripped  of  even  womanly  innocence ! 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  and  yet  of  so  mean  a 
quality !  Could  my  soul  mate  with  a  soul  like 
this  ?  Was  there  any  hope-  of  conjunction  ?  I 
saw  the  wall  rise  higher  between  us.  I  looked  at 
her  across  a  gulf  that  widened  every  moment. 

I  was  always  poor  at  disguises.  As  I  feel,  so 
I  usually  appear.  If  I  simulate,  it  is  with  an  ef 
fort  that  is  of  short  duration.  In  my  bearing  to 
ward  Julia  from  that  day  she  could  not  help  see 
ing  an  altered  state  of  mind.  She  made  no  ef 
fort  to  win  back  my  failing  love,  but  rather  hid 
her  sweetness  when  we  were  alone.  In  com 
pany  she  shone  out  with  a  flash  and  brilliancy 
that  often  astonished  me  by  its  contrast  with 
her  home  exterior,  and  I  often  saw  the  eyes  of 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  295 

men  whose  character  I  knew  too  well  resting  on 
her  face.  There  is  a  beauty  so  full  of  all  pure 
intimations  that  it  repels  such  eyes.  It  blinds, 
confuses  and  rebukes  them.  But  such  was  not, 
alas  !  my  wife's  beauty. 

She  soon  grew  self-willed  and  assumed  a 
more  independent  line  of  conduct,  in  a  measure 
defying  me.  She  knew  that  I  strongly  disliked 
Mr.  Harbaugh,  and  yet  would  always  receive 
him  in  the  most  gracious  manner  when  he  hap 
pened  to  be  in  any  company  where  we  were 
present.  He  had  ventured  to  call  and  spend  an 
evening  with  us  two  or  three  times,  but  I  treated 
him  with  such  a  frigidly  polite  air  that  he  gave 
up  these  intrusions.  I  saw  that  in  doing  so  I 
was  adding  stones  to  the  wall  that  was  growing 
up  between  Julia  and  myself,  but  to  act  other 
wise  was  impossible. 

Coldness,  constraint  and  a  constant  sense  of 
disapproval  at  home,  warmth,  freedom,  admi 
ration  and  flattery  abroad.  I  do  not  wonder  that 
a  creature  wrought  of  such  elements  as  made 
up  the  character  of  my  wife  should  dislike  her 
home  and  get  out  into  the  world  and  amid  other 
associations  as  frequently  as  possible.  I  do  not 
wonder  that,  not  really  loving  her  husband,  she 


296  MARRYING   A    BEAUTY. 

should  be  fonder  of  some  men's  society  than  of 
his,  nor  that,  having  neither  prudence  nor  princi 
ple,  she  should  act  in  such  unbecoming  ways  as 
to  provoke  scandal. 

..  I  could  not  play  the  spy  upon  my  wife.  A 
sense  of  honor,  of  good  faith  with  myself,  pre 
vented  this.  And  yet  I  had  reason  to  fear  that 
in  my  absence  from  home  during  business-hours 
she  received  calls  from  gentlemen,  or,  it  might 
be,  went  out  with  them  riding  or  walking.  A 
few  times  I  had  met  her  on  one  of  the  fashion 
able  streets,  where  business  happened  to  take 
me,  and  she  always  had  an  attendant.  Once  I 
saw  her  riding,  but  did  not  make  out  her  com 
panion.  As  she  had  not  seen  me,  I  did  not 
question  her  on  the  subject. 

I  was  becoming  more  unhappy  every  day. 
This  partition  wall,  this  widening  gulf,  must  in 
time  effect  a  complete  separation.  The  beauti 
ful  temple  I  had  builded  must  ere  long  fall  into 
hopeless  ruin,  and  what  then  ?  I  shuddered 
often  as  this  hard  question  struck  upon  my  soul 
with  a  painful  jar. 

It  was  a  warm  October  day,  which,  coming 
after  a  cold  spell  of  weather,  was  an  invitation 
to  the  open  air. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  297 

"  Shall  we  ride  out  this  afternoon,  Julia  ?"  I 
said  as  we  sat  at  the  dinner-table. 

"  My  head  aches,"  she  answered,  in  a  dull 
voice. 

"  The  ride  may  do  it  good,"  I  suggested. 

"  No  ;  riding  never  helps  me  when  I  have  the 
headache.  My  remedy  is  to  keep  quiet." 

I  said  no  more.  She  had  not  spoken  of  a 
headache  until  I  proposed  riding.  I  thought  of 
this  at  the  time. 

On  coming  home  at  six  o'clock  in  the  even 
ing  it  was  almost  dark.  I  did  not  find  my  wife. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Marion?"  I  asked  of  one  of 
our  servants. 

"  She  hasn't  returned  yet,"  was  answered. 

"  Where  did  she  go  ?" 

"  Out  riding." 

"  With  whom  ?" 

There  was  hesitation.  I  saw  by  the  servant's 
manner  that  she  did  not  think  my  wife  had  gone 
away  in  the  right  company. 

"With  Mr.  Harbaugh,"  she  said,  rather  fal- 
teringly,  dropping  her  eyes  from  mine. 

I  turned  from  her  quickly  and  went  up  stairs. 
The  shadows  of  approaching  evil  sometimes  fall 
heavily  upon  us,  but  too  late  to  serve  as  warn- 


298  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

ings.  I  felt  night  closing  round  me — a  dark  and 
starless  night.  After  this  could  I  receive  my 
wife  home  again  ?  Could  I  open  the  door  and 
let  her  pass  in  over  the  threshold  ?  These 
questions  crowded  themselves  into  my  mind, 
and  I  was  in  too  much  confusion  of  thought 
to  answer  them  clearly.  Between  my  soul  and 
her  soul  the  gulf  had  so  widened  in  an  instant 
that  henceforth  we  must  dwell  at  an  almost 
inconceivable  distance  from  each  other. 

Blind  as  I  had  been  during  the  long  period 
that  intervened  before  our  marriage,  weakly  as 
I  had  taken  purity  and  truth  for  granted,  I  yet 
held  the  marriage  relation  to  be  the  holiest  and 
most  sacred  of  all  relations.  I  therefore  not 
only  blamed  my  wife,  but,  faithful  and  true  my 
self  in  thought  as  well  as  deed,  my  nature  rose 
in  antagonism  and  disgust  against  her.  A  sense 
of  loathing  crept  into  my  soul  as  I  sat  and  med 
itated.  She  had  lied  to  me,  feigning  headache, 
and  yet  I  was  scarcely  away  from  my  home  ere 
she  accepted  the  companionship  of  a  man  with 
out  principle — one  whom  I  had  actually  forbid 
den  her  to  be  seen  with  in  public.  Could  I 
take  her  into  my  bosom  as  before  ?  Could  we 
ever  walk  side  by  side  again,  or  dwell  together 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  299 

in  one  house  ?  I  give  you  my  state  of  mind — 
confused,  distressed  and  without  decision. 

At  our  usual  tea-hour  Julia  was  still  absent. 
New  and  alarming  suggestions  came  into  my 
thoughts.  She  had  been  weak,  vain,  impru 
dent,  false  to  the  spirit  of  her  marriage  vows, 
lacking  in  those  virtuous  instincts  that  are  the 
beauty  and  crown  of  womanhood,  but  I  had  not 
believed  her  vile.  I  had  felt  that  she  was  in 
danger,  but  dreamed  not  that  in  its  worst  form 
it  was  ready  to  sweep  her  away.  The  suspense 
of  mind  which  I  now  suffered  was  agonizing. 

"  Shall  I  serve  tea  ?"  I  started,  and  then  re 
pressed  all  signs  of  disturbance. 

"  Not  yet.  Something  has  detained  Mrs. 
Marion.  She'll  be  here  very  soon." 

The  servant  went  down  stairs.  I  got  up  and 
walked  the  floor.  Five,  ten,  twenty  minutes, 
half  an  hour,  and  still  Julia  was  absent.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  I  stood  still,  trying  to  reach 
some  conclusion — trying  to  decide  upon  some 
line  of  conduct.  There  came  to  my  ears  the 
sound  of  carriage  wheels.  I  moved  to  the  win 
dow,  listening. .  It  approached — seemed  passing ; 
no,  the  rattle  stopped  suddenly.  The  carriage 
was  at  my  door.  I  drew  back  from  the  window 


300  MARRYING   A   BEAUTY. 

and  stood  waiting.  The  bell  was  rung  hard. 
The  jangling  noise  startled  me.  I  came  out  of 
the  room  where  I  had  been  sitting,  and  stood  in 
the  upper  passage,  while  a  servant  went  to  the 
door.  It  was  opened.  I  heard  myself  inquired 
for  in  a  man's  voice.  The  tones  were  familiar. 
It  was  our  physician.  I  ran  down  stairs  and  met 
him  as  he  stood  in  the  vestibule.  He  took  my 
hand  and  looked  at  me  with  troubled  eyes. 

"  I  have  bad  news  for  you,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  quickly,  drawing  him, 
by  the  hand  I  had  taken,  out  of  the  vestibule 
toward  the  parlor  door.  He  did  not  reply  until 
we  were  in  the  parlor. 

"An  accident  has  happened,"  he  then  said. 

"  To  my  wife  ?" 

"Yes.  She  was  thrown  from  a  vehicle,  and 
has  one  arm  broken.  I  fear  there  are  internal 
injuries  besides." 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"At  her  aunt's." 

"  Why  there  ?  Why  was  she  not  brought 
home?" 

"  She  was  taken  there,  as  I  undetstand  it,  by 
her  own  request,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Where  did  the  accident  occur  ?" 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  30 1 

"  A  mile  from  the  city,  on  the  Briartown  road." 

It  would  have  been  nearest  for  her  to  come 
directly  home,  and  yet,  at  her  own  desire,  she 
was  taken  to  her  aunt's ! 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes.    I  was  sent  for  the  moment  she  arrived." 

"  Who  called  for  you  ?"  I  put  the  question 
very  abruptly. 

"  A  Mr.  Harbaugh."  The  doctor's  voice  be 
trayed  his  reluctance  to  pronounce  the  name. 
He  then  added,  "  Her  arm  has  a  compound 
fracture." 

"And  there  are  internal  injuries,  you  think?" 

"  I  fear  so,  but  they  may  not  be  serious. 
When  I  left  her  she  was  more  comfortable." 

"  You  will  visit  her  again  to-night  ?"  I  said. 

"  Oh  yes."  The  doctor  arose.  I  did  not  seek 
to  detain  him,  and  he  went  away.  I  could  see 
from  his  manner  that  he  was  not  satisfied  with 
my  state  of  mind. 

"What  is  the  matter,  sir?"  Our  two  servants 
confronted  me  in  the  hall,  putting  this  question, 
as  I  turned  from  the  departing  physician.  "Is 
she  much  hurt?  How  did  it  happen?"  they  add 
ed  before  I  was  able  to  collect  my  thoughts  to 
answer. 

26 


302  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

"  Mrs.  Marion  was  thrown  from  a  carriage, 
and  has  an  arm  broken,"  I  replied. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  was  the  next  eagerly-put 
inquiry. 

"At  her  aunt's." 

"  Indeed !  And  why  didn't  they  bring  her 
home  ?" 

I  did  not  answer  the  query,  for  any  answer, 
save  what  I  felt  to  be  the  true  one,  would  have 
been  subterfuge. 

"  I  shall  not  want  any  tea,"  said  I,  passing  the 
servants  and  going  up  stairs.  I  glanced  back 
from  the  first  landing.  They  were  looking  after 
me  with  a  half-dazed,  half-wondering  air.  I 
found  myself  panting,  as  I  sat  down  to  think, 
like  one  who  had  been  pursued. 

To  think  !  When  thought  increased  my  pain 
and  bewilderment.  To  think !  If  I  could  have 
ceased  to  think,  to  feel,  to  comprehend !  There 
was  no  impulse  prompting  me  to  fly  to  the  bed 
side  of  my  injured  wife.  I  was  not  attracted 
toward  her,  but  repelled.  I  did  not  even  feel 
pity  for  her  bodily  suffering,  it  seemed  so  light 
in  comparison  with  the  agony  she  had  caused 
me  to  endure,  with  the  sorrow  and  shame  she 
was  opening  her  heart  to  receive.  The  broken 


MARRYING  A    BEAUTY.  303 

bone  would  knit  in  time,  the  bruised  flesh  heal, 
but  there  was  no  medicine  for  my  heart.  She 
might,  and  no  doubt  would,  come  out  into  the 
sunshine  again,  but  I  must  dwell  in  perpetual 
shadow.  I  could  not  shut  away  the  future  and 
narrow  down  all  considerations  to  the  simple 
present,  forgiving  and  forgetting  everything  be 
cause  of  an  accident  and  its  absorbing  shock  and 
suffering.  It  was  not  hardness  in  me,  not  want 
of  feeling,  but  the  too  clear  apprehension  of  all 
the  sad  things  that  were  involved. 

Deliberately,  after  a  short  interrogation  of 
every  changing  state  of  mind,  of  every  argu 
ment  pro  and  con,  of  every  consequence  near 
and  remote,  I  resolved  not  to  visit  my  wife  at 
her  aunt's  unless  she  sent  for  me.  The  de 
cision  looks  hard,  wrong,  cruel,  seen  only  from 
the  outside,  but  it  was  not  the  dictate  of 
either  hardness  or  cruelty.  Right  or  wrong, 
I  believed  the  decision  best.  In  fact,  except 
through  the  humiliation  of  that  true  manhood 
which  none  can  violate  without  self-hurt,  it  was 
impossible  ,  for  me  to  follow  my  wife  in  what  I 
felt  to  be  her  voluntary  departure  from  the 
home  of  her  husband.  She  had  gone  away,  in 
a  secret  and  clandestine  manner,  so  far  as  I  was 


304  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

concerned,  with  a  person  against  whom  I  had 
spoken  in  the  most  decided  way.  A  serious 
accident  had  betrayed  the  fact.  Then,  instead 
of  having  herself  conveyed  back  to  the  home  of 
her  husband,  she  was  taken,  at  her  own  instance, 
past  his  home,  to  that  of  the  relative  with  whom 
she  resided  before  marriage.  You  say,  in  hor 
favor,  to  explain  this  last  fact,  that  it  was  not  so 
much  against  her  that  she  preferred  a  removal 
to  her  aunt,  in  her  injured,  helpless  condition,  to 
being  committed  to  the  care  of  servants.  Let  it 
go  in  her  favor,  if  you  will.  But  it  did  not  sat 
isfy  me.  Why  was  I  not  sent  for  immediately  ? 
Why  was  I  not  informed  of  the  accident  until 
the  doctor  had  been  there  and  set  the  fractured 
bone,  and  then  only  through  his  courtesy?  I 
was  not  a  dolt,  a  blind  child.  I  could  see,  I 
could  feel,  I  could  read,  the  meaning  of  things. 

After  deliberation,  as  I  have  said,  I  resolved 
not  to  visit  my  wife  at  her  aunt's  unless  she  sent 
for  me,  or  in  some  plain  way  signified  her  desire 
to  have  me  come.  All  the  evening  I  waited  at 
home  for  her  messenger,  but  none  appeared. 
In  the  morning  I  received  a  note  from  her  aunt 
briefly  stating  the  accident  and  asking  to  see 
me. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  305 

"  There  are  reasons  why,  as  things  now  stand, 
I  cannot  see  you  at  your  own  house,"  I  wrote 
back  in  answer.  "Will  you  not  call  and  see 
me  ?  I  will  remain  at  home  until  ten  o'clock. 
Come,  if  you  please.  I  very  much  desire  an 
interview." 

Her  aunt  came,  as  requested.  She  was  the 
sister  of  Julia's  mother,  was  a  handsome,  mid 
dle-aged  woman,  was  fond  of  dress  and  com 
pany,  vain  and  superficial.  I  had  never  liked 
her.  She  passed  for  a  widow,  but  common  re 
port  had  it  that  her  husband  was  living  some 
where  at  the  South.  This  report  afterward 
proved  true,  the  husband  appearing  just  in  time 
to  save  a  rich,  weak  old  man  from  marrying 
her. 

The  aunt  came.  She  was  in  great  trouble, 
and  volunteered  to  censure  Julia  for  not  going 
to  her  own  house.  I  did  not  think  the  censure 
wholly  sincere.  In  fact,  I  never  put  faith  in  her 
for  anything.  She  was  a  fluent  talker  and  pro 
tester  of  feeling.  All  her  expressions  were  ar 
dent  and  in  the  style  superlative.  It  was  meet 
for  me  to  be  on  my  guard,  and  so  I  was 
guarded.  My  reception  of  her  was  grave,  my 
manner  very  serious. 

26*  U 


306  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

"How  is  Julia  this  morning?"  I  asked,  coldly. 

"  She  is  not  in  so  much  pain.  It  was  a  fright 
ful  affair !  I  wonder  she  had  not  been  dashed 
to  pieces !"  And  then  she  went  into  a  wordy 
account  of  the  accident.  After  she  had  talked 
herself  out  of  breath,  I  said  : 

"  It  would  have  been  nearer  for  her  to  come 
home.  Why  did  she  not  do  so  ?" 

"  Mr.  Harbaugh — "  She  checked  herself.  I 
knitted  my  brows  sternly. 

"  It  was  her  own  act.  She  went  past  her  hus 
band's  home  voluntarily,"  I  said,  "  and  I  am  not 
pleased,  not  satisfied,  touching  the  motives  by 
which  she  was  influenced.  All  the  circum 
stances  taken  into  account,  her  conduct  has  a 
questionable  look,  and  I  ask  for  explanations. 
Why  was  I  not  sent  for  immediately  on  her 
arrival  at  your  house  ?  Why  was  I  not  sent  for 
last  evening  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  doctor  said  he  would  call  here  as  he 
went  home,"  interposed  the  aunt. 

"The  doctor!"  I  spoke  with  indignation. 
"  I,  her  husband,  could  be  notified  informally 
through  courtesy  of  the  doctor  as  he  returned 
homeward  on  his  round  of  visits !  Quite  a 
diversion  in  my  favor !  I  tell  you,  madam,  this 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  307 

whole  thing  is  out  of  the  true  order,  and  has  a 
bad  look !  I  am  not  satisfied  with  it  as  it  now 
stands." 

My  visitor's  face  grew  red  suddenly,  her 
mouth  jerked  and  quivered,  tears  filled  her 
eyes. 

"Poor  child!"  she  sobbed.  "Hurt,  suffering, 
distressed,  and  to  have  this  added !  It  is  cruel 
in  you,  Mr.  Marion  !  If  you  really  loved  her — " 

"Stop!'.'  I  said,  with  angry  sternness.  "I 
will  have  nothing  of  this !  And  let  me  warn 
you,  madam,  against  the  folly  of  lending  any 
countenance  to  the  wrong  step  my  wife  has 
taken.  If  you  value  her  peace  of  mind,  her 
good  name,  her  future  well-being,  seek  by  all 
means  in  your  power  to  draw  her  back  to  the 
right  path,  from  which  her  feet  have  clearly 
diverged.  There  are  two  ways  in  life,  one  lead 
ing  to  honor  and  happiness,  the  other  to  shame 
and  misery.  She  has  been  hesitating  for  some 
time  at  the  point  where  these  two  ways  diverge. 
I  have  observed  it  with  fear  and  trembling. 
Alas  for  her !  the  wrong  road  has  been 
chosen.  If  she  goes  onward,  she  parts  from  her 
husband,  blights  her  good  name,  raises  to  her 
lips  a  cup  the  wine  whereof  is  bitter.  By  all 


308  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

that  is  good  and  holy,  lead  her  back,  lead  her 
back !" 

I  was  strongly  excited,  spoke  almost  vehe 
mently  and  with  no  guarded  choice  of  words. 
The  aunt  was  offended,  not  drawn  to  my  side. 
Her  pride  took  flame.  The  evil  in  her  went 
over  to  the  side  of  her  beautiful  niece.  I  was 
unreasonable,  a  brute,  a  tyrant,  cruel.  She  said 
this  in  plain  words,  with  hot  cheeks  and  flash 
ing  eyes. 

"  I  warn  you,  madam  !"  My  answer  wras  stern 
and  threatening.  "  If  you  trifle  with  a  solemn 
issue  like  this,  you  are  throwing  happiness  like 
chaff  to  the  winds.  You  see  that  I  am  deeply 
moved,  sadly  in  earnest — that  to  me,  think  as 
you  may,  this  matter  is  one  of  infinite  concern. 
I  know  just  where  I  stand,  what  I  can  yield  and 
what  I  can  withhold,  what  I  can  and  what  I  can 
not  do,  what  I  have  to  suffer  if  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst.  Take,  madam,  this  into  account. 
I  am  as  inflexible  as  iron  when  my  course  is 
once  taken.  And  in  this  thing  I  have  taken  my 
course.  If  Julia  ever  sees  me  at  your  house, 
she  must  send  for  me,  and  I  must  be  sure  that 
she  has  sent !" 

The  word  I  had  not  at  first  intended  speaking 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  309 

was  beyond  recall.  The  hard  decision,  not  clearly 
made  in  my  own  judgment,  was  precipitated 
under  the  power  of  excitement,  and  so  fixed  in  a 
strong  will.  Having  spoken,  I  would  endure. 

I  saw  by  the  aunt's  face  that  she  was  not  on 
my  side — that  no  good  was  to  be  expected  from 
her  influence. 

"I  will  report  your  ultimatum,"  she  said,  stiffly, 
then  adding  a  stately  "  Good-morning !"  with 
drew. 

When  alone,  I  sat  down,  with  an  effort  to  calm 
my  feelings,  and  to  look  at  the  situation  in  its 
new  and  perilous  aspect — to  examine  my  rela 
tion  to  my  wife,  and  to  determine  whether  I  was 
right  or  wrong  in  the  line  of  conduct  to  which  I 
had  committed  myself.  As  I  grew  calmer,  I  did 
not  see  quite  so  clearly  the  wisdom  or  prudence 
of  the  course  I  had  declared.  It  was  an  "  ulti 
matum,"  as  Julia's  aunt  had  said,  and  "  ultima 
tums"  are  not  always  safe  things.  "But  it 
shall  abide  !"  I  confirmed  the  decision  mentally, 
clenching  my  nervous  fingers  until  the  nails 
hurt  the  sensitive  palms. 

In  kind,  gentle  and  yielding  natures  we  often 
find  an  element  of  inflexibility  that  comes  sud 
denly  into  force,  changing  the  pliant  willows  of 


3IO  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

character  into  unbending;  oak.    I  had  been  kind. 

o  ' 

gentle  and  yielding:  naturally  my  disposition 
leans  to  this  side  ;  but  I  was  so  no  longer  toward 
my  weak,  erring  wife.  For  months  I  had  been 
gradually  coming  to  a  nearer  and  nearer  view  of 
her  true  quality  of  soul,  and  the  more  disguises 
my  hands  removed,  the  less  beautiful  she  ap 
peared,  the  less  pure,  true,  loving,  until  I  found 
a  mean  deformity  that  disgusted,  instead  of 
that  womanly  truth,  tenderness,  sweetness  and 
beauty  which  I  had  so  worshiped,  but  only,  as 
it  proved,  in  the  unsubstantial  ideal. 

I  was  changed  even  in  my  own  eyes.  I  hardly 
knew  the  kind-feeling,  gently-deferring  man  of 
former  times  to  be  the  inflexible  one  of  to-day. 
This  almost  death-grapple  with  a  fate,  of  all  fates, 
for  a  man  of  my  interior  constitution,  the  most 
fearful  to  contemplate,  had  turned  the  fibres  of 
my  soul  into  brass,  and  given  it  strength  for 
any  conflict.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  grown  older 
in  will,  power  of  thought  and  strength  to  bear 
by  twenty  years  in  a  day. 

"  We  shall  see  what  will  come  of  this  !"  So  I 
said  in  a  self-sustaining  spirit  as  I  went  out  and 
took  my  steps  business-ward.  I  did  not  return 
home  until  evening.  Had  my  wife  come  to  bet- 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  311 

ter  reason  ?  Had  she  sent  for  me,  as  love  and 
duty  would  prompt,  when  she  understood  the 
peculiar  view  I  had  taken  of  her  conduct  ?  My 
mind  was  in  suspense  with  these  questions.  I 
grew  eager  and  oppressed  with  heavier  heart 
beats  as  I  came  near  home.  But  no  message 

o 

awaited  me. 

"  Has  any  word  been  left  ?"  I  asked  of  a 
servant. 

She  shook  her  head  and  said  no. 

"  A  letter?" 

"None." 

I  passed  her,  and  went  up  to  the  desolate 
rooms  that  mocked  me  with  a  chilly  silence.  I  sat 
down  in  the  chambers  which  had  been  dedicated 
to  purity  and  abiding  love — chambers  where 
once  everything  had  worn  a  halo  of  golden  light, 
caught  as  it  seemed  from  the  inner  heavens,  and 
felt  my  heart  shudder  as  in  a  cold,  blank,  dreary 
void.  "  But  the  end  is  not  yet !"  I  said,  aloud, 
uttering  an  inner  conviction  that  flashed  into 
light  as  if  a  spirit  had  spoken  in  the  adytum  of 
my  soul.  "  The  end  is  not  yet." 

Early  in  the  evening  I  had  a  call  from  the 
doctor.  His  manner,  as  we  met,  was  serious 
and  constrained. 


312  MARRYING   A   BEAUTY. 

"  How  is  my  wife  ?"  I  asked,  repressing  all 
signs  of  interest. 

"  Not  so  well.  She  has  considerable  fever, 
and  pain  in  the  fractured  arm." 

I  dropped  my  eyes  from  his  intent  gaze,  and 
made  no  farther  inquiry  about  Julia.  I  under 
stood  why  he  had  called,  and  was  neither  pleased 
nor  displeased  at  his  intrusion.  He  was  a  sin 
cere,  right- meaning  man,  and  therefore  I  could 
hear  him  even  on  a  subject  the  most  sacred  to 
myself  without  being  offended. 

"  I  was  deeply  pained,  Mr.  Marion,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  "  to  learn,  on  visiting  your  wife 
this  afternoon,  that  you  had  not  seen  her  since 
the  accident." 

I  looked  at  him  while  he  was  speaking,  and 
then,  without  answering,  dropped  my  eyes  again. 
There  was  nothing  in  my  manner  that  was 
meant  to  repel  him,  nor  was  there  invitation  to 
proceed.  He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  then 
resumed : 

"  Too   much    is   involved   to  let   feeling"   rule 

o 

your  conduct.  There  are  certain  steps  in  life 
which,  once  taken,  lead  away  from  happiness, 
and  are  never  retraced.  It  is  because  I  fear 
you  are  about  venturing  these  steps  that  I  have 


MARRYING   A   BEAUTY.  313 

called  on  you  to-night.  Will  you  confer  with 
me  as  with  a  true  friend  ?" 

I  gave  him  my  hand  spontaneously.  I  said, 
"  You  are  a  true  man,  and  honorable,  doctor ! 
Your  motive  in  calling  has  my  highest  respect. 
Speak  without  hesitation  ;  I  will  listen  and  weigh 
your  words." 

He  reflected,  as  if  in  doubt  where  to  begin  the 
work  of  intervention. 

"  I  do  not  like  your  wife's  aunt.  She  is  not, 
in  my  estimation,  either  a  wise  or  a  prudent 


woman." 


"  Just  my  own  opinion,"  I  answered. 

"Then  can  you  think  it  safe  to  leave  Mrs. 
Marion  for  even  a  little  while,  as  things  now  are, 
entirely  under  her  aunt's  influence?" 

I  had  no  brief  response  to  this  question  that 
could  satisfy  the  doctor,  and  so  did  not  attempt 
to  meet  the  interrogation  in  any  direct  form.  I 
only  said : 

"There  are  evils  which  cannot  be  escaped. 
Once  in  motion,  they  are  as  irresistible  as  the 
down-rushing  avalanche.  When  truth  and  hon 
or  are  cast  upon  the  winds,  where  are  we  to  reap 
the  harvest  of  virtue  and  happiness  ?  I  ask  my 
self  this  solemn  question,  and  hearken  in  vain 


27 


3H  MARRYING   A   BEAUTY. 

for  the  answer.  It  does  not  come,  and  I  sit  in 
the  shadow  of  a  great  fear  that  appalls  and  par 
alyzes  me." 

This  was  so  vague  that  the  doctor  was 
thrown  at  fault.  He  came  back,  however,  to 
the  subject  he  wished  to  impress  on  my  mind. 

"  It  is  a  great  pity  that  she  was  ever  taken  to 
her  aunt's,"  he  said. 

"The  act  was  her  own,"  I  answered. 

"  Perhaps  not  entirely  her  own,"  remarked 
the  doctor. 

I  understood  him.  His  words  kindled  a  fire 
in  my  heart — a  great  fire  of  indignation  that 
burned  up  the  last  filament  of  love.  Not  her 
own  act !  Whose  then  ?  By  what  influence  was 
she  moved  to  go  past  the  home  of  her  husband  ? 
The  doctor's  suggestion  was  unfortunate.  It 
took  my  thought  into  the  very  core,  the  rotten 
core,  of  my  dishonor  and  her  shame.  Better 
that  I  should  have  considered  the  act  wholly 
hers  than  as  instigated  by  this  man  Harbaugh. 
He  influence  my  wife  to  avoid  her  husband's 
home !  He,  whom  I  loathed  as  unprincipled 
and  impure,  whose  very  touch  would  have 
made  me  shudder  as  if  it  were  a  snake's  touch ! 

"So  much  the  worse,  doctor — so   much  the 


x       MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  315 

worse !"  I  answered,  all  my  external  calmness 
giving  way.  "  This  makes  the  sin  against  her 
husband  deeper  and  more  unpardonable — this 
gives  the  measure  of  her  alienation.  You  have 
touched  me  in  the  tenderest  place !" 

"There  are  considerations  of  prudence,"  he 
said,  appealing  to  my  reason,  "  that  no  man 
should  disregard.  Admit  that  your  wife  is  in 
danger.  Then  is  it  not  your  duty  to  spring  at 
once  to  the  point  of  protection  and  rescue  ?" 

My  wife  in  danger  !  Of  what  ?  I  answered 
the  question  to  myself,  and  grew  hard  as  iron. 

"  The  enemy  to  her  peace  and  mine  dwells  in 
her  own  heart,"  I  replied.  "  She  must  of  her 
own  will  and  effort  cast  out  the  demon.  If  not, 
the  worst  comes.  While  the  demon  remains  I 
am  thrust  to  the  outside,  and  have  no  power  to 
protect  or  defend." 

The  doctor  was  perplexed  by  the  case.  He 
saw  it  but  obscurely,  yet  comprehended  enough 
to  understand  the  calamity  that  hung  suspended 
like  a  sharp  sword  above  our  heads.  He  would 
save  us,  but  the  power  of  rescue  was  not  in  his 
hands.  I  was  not  to  be  influenced  by  any  mere 
outside  considerations,  by  worldly  prudence,  by 
fear  of  opinion,  by  dread  of  pain.  Pain  !  there 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

was  no  pain  possible  beyond  the  present  an 
guish,  no  humiliation  of  soul  deeper  than 
what  I  then  experienced,  in  that  my  wife — that 
being  I  had  so  loved  as  the-  embodiment  of  all 
that  was  pure,  sweet,  chaste,  tender,  loving — 
should  turn  in  spirit  from  me  and  find  congenial 
companionship  with  one  whose  very  breath  must 
poison  a  virtuous  woman's  soul !  Herein  lay 
the  impediment:  I  felt  her  to  be  unworthy. 

"  She  went  from  me  of  her  own  election  " — I 
spoke  resolutely — "  and  until  she  repents  of  this 
act  and  gives  me  true  signs  of  repentance,  I 
shall  not  go  to  her.  When  she  is  able  to  return 
she  will  find  the  door  open.  If  she  enter,  well  ; 
if  not,  the  responsibility  of  all  that  follows  rests 
alone  with  her.  The  matter  is  one  of  the 
gravest  moment,  and  I  shall  treat  it  gravely. 
If  she  prefer  other  men's  society  to  mine,  we 
cannot  live  together  as  man  and  wife.  The 
thing,  to  one  of  my  feelings,  is  simply  impossible. 
Another's  duty  might  lie  in  another  direction,  but 
mine  does  not.  Marriage,  in  my  regard,  is  too 
holy  for  this  kind  of  profanation.  I  speak 
plainly,  doctor,  and  in  a  degree  of  confidence, 
that  you  may  understand  my  position  in  this 
painful  affair.  If  you  can  help  my  wife  to  see 


MARRYING  A    BEAUTY.  317 

that  she  is  standing  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice, 
she  may  be  frightened  and  move  back.  Dis 
grace  may  be  avoided.  But  it  is  too  late  to 
restore  peace  of  mind." 

He  left  me  with  a  shadow  of  trouble  on  his 
fine  countenance.  He  was  my  friend,  and  de 
sired  to  save  me  from  an  impending  calamity, 
but  could  not  perceive  the  way. 

Days  went  by,  and  I  held  to  my  resolution. 
I  neither  visited  my  wife  nor  sent  to  inquire 
after  her. 

"  She  has  turned  herself  from  me,"  I  said, 
"and  she  must  turn  to  me  again.  The  first  act 
was  hers,  and  the  second  must  be  hers  also.  If 
she  have  any  love  for  me,  she  will  turn  again ; 
if  not,  we  dwell  for  ever  apart." 

She  did  not  turn  to  me.  Days  were  added 
to  days,  until  the  period  of  separation  was 
lengthened  to  weeks.  Except  for  an  occasional 
meeting  with  the  doctor,  I  should  have  remained 
as  ignorant  of  her  condition  as  if  an  ocean 
rolled  between  us.  From  him  I  learned  that  she 
was  safely  recovering  from  the  effects  of  her 
injury.  Concerning  her  state  of  mind  I  asked 
nothing,  and  he  ventured  no  communication.  I 
understood  from  his  reserved  manner  and  the 

27* 


3l8  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

real  concern  which  was  not  hidden  that  her 
mental  condition  was  not  satisfactory.  He  had, 
it  was  plain,  seen  enough  to  satisfy  him  that  she 
did  not  possess  the  qualities  which  go  to  make 
the  true  wife,  and  in  the  delicate  and  doubtful 
position  she  occupied  was  not  exhibiting  either 
a  right  spirit  or  right  conduct.  So  much  I  in 
ferred,  right  or  wrong,  and  it  helped  to  sustain 
me  in  the  course  I  had  adopted. 

The  weeks  lengthened  into  months.  Julia 
made  no  sign,  and  I  waited  on.  The  anguish 
which  I  had  felt  in  the  beginning  was  giving 
place  to  a  dull  aching  of  the  heart.  I  had  the 
strength  to  bear  this  internal  pain  without  much 
change  in  exterior.  I  kept  my  life  calm  at  the 
surface,  and  intermitted  nothing  in  business. 

One  day,  nearly  three  months  after  the  un 
happy  event  described,  as  I  was  returning  to  my 

desolate  home  late  in  the  afternoon,  a  carriao-e 

& 

drove  rapidly  past  me.  I  lifted  my  eyes  from  the 
pavement  in  time  to  see  Julia  sitting  beside  Mr. 
Harbaugh.  She  did  not  show  any  shrinking  or 
shame,  but  looked  at  me  coldly  and  placidly. 
Exteriorly,  I  was  as  calm  as  my  wife.  Inwardly, 
the  last  wild  struggle  was  begun.  It  was  brief. 
That  evening  I  gave  my  servants  notice  that  I 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  319 

should  not  want  them  after  the  week's  close.  On 
the  next  day  I  directed  an  auctioneer  to  make 
an  inventory  of  my  furniture,  preparatory  to  a 
sale. 

My  last  and  hardest  trial  came.  Up  to  this 
time  Julia  had  sent  for  none  of  her  clothing,  and 
I  had  not  seen  it  best  to  supply  her,  voluntarily, 
with  any  portion  of  her  wardrobe.  But  now  that 
I  was  going  to  destroy  the  fair  home  I  had  builded 
for  love  to  dwell  in  because  there  was  no  love, 
it  was  but  fitting  that  what  was  hers,  even  to 
the  minutest  thing,  should  be  formally  trans 
ferred.  I  shrank  from  the  task,  but  it  had  to  be 
done.  At  first,  the  articles,  as  I  looked  at  and 
touched  them,  gave  a  sense  of  disgust,  as  if 
associated  with  something  impure.  But  this 
passed,  and  I  soon  found  my  eyes  full  of  tears, 
my  hands  trembling  and  my  heart  melting  with 
softness. 

In  her  jewel-case  was  her  miniature.  She  had 
given  it  to  me  before  our  marriage.  The  clear, 
sweet  eyes  looked  up  into  mine  from  the  setting 
of  pearls  with  which  I  had  had  it  encircled — 
looked  up  into  mine  tenderly,  lovingly,  full  of 
all  pure  suggestions,  drawing  my  soul  with  an 
intense  attraction. 


32O  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

"  So  sweet,  so  beautiful,  so  like  an  angel,  and 
yet  so  unworthy,"  I  said,  putting  the  pictured 
face  aside  with  a  quiet  movement  that  was  only 
a  veil  to  the  agitation  within.  But  I  could  not 
shut  the  image  from  my  sight.  The  lovely  coun 
tenance  was  still  before  me  in  all  its  radiance, 
the  eyes  were  resting  peacefully,  innocently,  ten 
derly,  in  mine,  and  holding  me  by  a  spell.  I  must 
break  this  spell,  it  was  a  false  charm,  luring  only 
to  disappointment.  So  pushing  aside  the  image, 
I  called  back  Julia's  face  as  I  had  seen  it  on  that 
day — cold,  shameless,  almost  taunting.  By  this 
I  had  power  over  myself  once  more.  Through 
the  mingling  of  indignation  and  disgust  with 
pain,  I  found  strength  of  will  to  go  on  with  the 
work  in  which  I  was  engaged. 

I  did  not  venture  to  look  at  the  miniature  again. 
It  was  laid  aside  in  the  jewel-case  with  many 
souvenirs  of  love  that  I  had  bestowed  upon  my 
wife.  It  was  hard  to  let  some  of  these  go  from 
me,  because  they  had  meant  so  much  in  the  giv 
ing.  But  the  question  of  retaining  any  of  them 
had  only  brief  debate.  I  saw  that  it  was  best  to 
keep  nothing,  for  the  smallest  thing  would  only 
be  a  painful  reminder. 

It  was,  perhaps,  well  that  in  the  beginning  of 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  321 

this  sad  evening's  work  I  came  so  early  upon 
the  miniature.  Other  things  had  less  power  to 
disturb  me.  The  gold- tipped  ivory  fan  I  had 
bought  for  her  ;  the  costly  laces;  the  India  shawl; 
the  silver  card-case ;  the  rich  dresses  in  which 
she  had  looked  so  entrancingly  beautiful, — one 
after  the  other  was  taken  from  drawer  and 
wardrobe,  and  consigned  to  trunks  and  boxes, 
with  all  things  to  which  she  had  any  personal 
claim.  I  moved  through  these  tasks  in  a  dull, 
heavy  way,  more  like  an  automaton  than  a  sen 
sitive  being.  I  seemed  to  myself  like  a  man 
grinding  in  a  dark  prison-house,  with  chest  con 
stricted  for  lack  of  air.  At  last  it  was  over. 
Everything  to  which  Julia  had  the  smallest 
claim  was  assigned  to  her,  the  trunks  locked,  and 
the  boxes  closed  with  nail  and  hammer.  This 
was  as  a  coping  to  the  wall  of  separation  which 
had  for  months  been  steadily  rising  between  us. 
I  cannot  find  language  that  will  convey  to  you 
any  just  idea  of  what  I  suffered  that  night.  I 
did  not  falter  for  a  moment — never  once  looked 
back — never  questioned  as  to  the  right  or  wrong 
of  what  I  was  doing.  If  Julia  had  come  to  me, 
in  the  midst  of  that  unhappy  work,  tearful,  re 
pentant  and  asking  to  be  forgiven,  I  could  not 


322  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

have  received  her  gladly.  I  would  have  received 
her  in  all  kindness,  yet  soberly  and  sorrowfully, 
as  one  not  worthy  of  my  love.  I  would  have 
done  all  in  my  power  to  make  her  life  pleasant 
and  peaceful — would  have  been  true  to  her,  just 
to  her,  patient  and  kind.  But  as  for  love,  that 
would  have  been  impossible,  because  my  soul 
could  not  find  in  her  soul  the  quality  for  which 
it  sought.  As  to  what  the  future  might  give 
under  the  reforming  and  re-creating  power  of 
a  new  life,  all  was  of  course  in  the  future.  I 
speak  only  of  that  present.  But  she  did  not 
return  to  me. 

On  the  next  day  I  sent  Julia  everything  to 
which  she  had  a  personal  right,  but  without  com 
munication  of  any  description.  On  the  day  fol 
lowing  I  saw  her  riding  out  with  Mr.  Harbaugh. 

"  No  heart,  no  conscience,  no  shame !"  I  said 
to  myself,  bitterly,  as  I  recognized  her.  Yet 
mingled  with  this  bitterness  was  a  sense  of  re 
lief,  for  her  acts  justified  my  course  and  made  it 
plain  that  separation  was  inevitable. 

Many  scandals  were  soon  abroad,  of  which  in 
trusive  friends  ^ave  me  intimations.  The  aunt 

o 

told  her  story,  seriously  to  my  injury.  I  was 
represented  as  a  jealous  domestic  tyrant  whose 


MARRYING  A    BEAUTY.  323 

abuse  finally  reached  to  such  a  climax  of  outrage 
that  my  wife  was  compelled  to  leave  me.  Too 
sad  and  heart-sick  to  care  about  denying  any 
thing,  I  let  all  pass  without  an  explanatory  sen 
tence  or  a  word  of  vindication.  "  Let  me  suffer 
what  I  may,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  she  must  always 
have  the  worst  of  it." 

Into  the  gay  world,  young,  beautiful,  fascinat 
ing,  she  went  as  before,  while  I  shrank  from 
society  and  lived  almost  alone.  Right-thinking 
people  lose  respect  for  a  man  who  is  seen  often 
in  public  with  a  woman  living  separate  from  her 
husband,  especially  if  the  circumstances  attend 
ant  on  the  separation  have  given  rise  to  scandals, 
as  in  this  case.  The  consequence  was  that  men 
who  felt  that  they  had  a  good  reputation  to  sus 
tain  avoided  the  society  of  my  wife,  and  the 
same  result  followed  with  ladies  who  were  duly 
careful  in  regard  to  the  kind  of  people  who  were 
invited  to  their  social  entertainments.  In  conse 
quence,  the  circle  in  which  my  wife  moved  grad 
ually  narrowed  itself,  and  she  fell  more  exclu 
sively  into  the  company  of  a  class  of  men  and 
women  who  represent  a  low  standard  of  honor 
and  virtue.  With  these  she  was  in  high  favor, 
her  beauty  her  wit  and  her  vivacious  spirits 


324  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

throwing  a  charm  around  her  wherever  she  ap 
peared. 

A  year  dragged  heavily  away.  During  the 
period  I  saw  Julia  a  few  times  on  the  street,  a 
few  times  in  public  assemblies  and  a  few  times 
driving  out,  always  in  company  with  some  male 
attendant ;  only  twice  with  Mr.  Harbaugh.  That 
individual,  for  all  his  lack  of  principle,  had  his 
own  reasons  for  desiring  to  stand  fair  with  right- 
minded  people,  and  so  prudently  dropped  my 
wife's  company  when  the  separation  from  her 
husband  made  her  notorious.  I  did  not  always 
know  the  men  I  saw  with  her,  and  never  inquired 
about  them.  Those  I  did  know  were  not  of  un 
blemished  reputation. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  I  was  notified  that  an  ap 
plication  for  divorce  had  been  made.  I  did  not 
employ  counsel,  nor  in  any  manner  respond  to 
the  notice.  A  time  for  hearing  the  case  was  ap 
pointed.  It  was  heard  and  decided  on  the  evi 
dence  produced,  which  was  made  to  bear  unfa 
vorably  on  me.  The  divorce  was  granted,  with 
alimony.  I  was  ordered  to  pay  her  the  sum  of 
twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year,  dating  from  the 
time  of  separation,  so  long  as  she  refrained  from 
marriage. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  325 

I  was  not  displeased  or  annoyed  at  the  allow 
ance  of  alimony.  If  she  had  made  application 
to  me  for  money,  even  in  liberal  amounts,  I 
would  have  met  the  application  favorably.  Le 
gally  she  was  my  wife,  and  all  legal  claims  on 
me  for  her  support  I  was  willing  to  pay.  But  I 
did  not  wish  to  communicate  with  her,  or  make 
what  might  seem  overtures.  So  I  had  held  my 
self  passive.  The  award  of  alimony  met  my 
state  of  mind,  and  was  coincident  with  my  view 
of  our  relation.  I  held  to  the  word  of  Scrip 
ture,  and  did  not  believe  that  any  civil  authority 
had  power  to  break  the  bond  of  marriage.  For 
myself,  while  she  lived,  I  could  not,  except  at 
peril  of  my  soul,  contract  another  marriage, 
and  I  had  resolved  to  stand  to  my  integrity. 

For  six  months  only  was  the  allowance  paid. 
I  took  up  a  newspaper  one  morning,  and  as  I 
was  opening  it  my  eyes  fell  upon  her  name.  It 
was  in  the  marriage  department.  An  ardent 
young  Southerner  had  met  her,  and  in  the  first 
warmth  of  admiration  laid  his  heart  and  fortune 
at  her  feet,  and  she  did  not  hesitate  about  ac 
cepting  the  offer. 

"  Better  this  than  worse,"  I  said  to  myself, 
sighing  deeply,  for  it  made  my  heart  feel  very 


28 


326  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

heavy.  She  went  away,  and  I  saw  her  but  once 
more.  Two  years  afterward  I  read  in  an  ex 
tract  from  a  Southern  paper  that  her  husband 
had  been  shot  in  a  duel  with  a  man  whom  he 
had  challenged  for  alleged  improper  familiarity 
with  his  wife,  and  a  year  later  it  came  to  my 
knowledge  that  she  had  married  the  murderer 
of  her  husband. 

One  incident  more,  and  I  will  end  this  sad 
history.  It  was  a  little  over  ten  years  later.  My 
health  had  given  way  through  too  close  applica 
tion  to  business,  and  I  was  spending  a  couple 
of  weeks  at  the  seashore.  The  season  being  at 
its  height,  there  were  arrivals  and  departures 
every  day,  and  a  constant  succession  of  new 
visitors.  One  morning,  on  taking  my  seat  at 
the  table,  I  found  myself  opposite  a  little  girl 
whose  face  startled  me  with  its  faultless  beauty 
and  strange  familiarity.  She  was  Julia's  minia 
ture  image !  Her  companion  was  a  tall,  sallow, 
dark-eyed,  unhappy-looking  man,  every  line  of 
whose  countenance  gave  token  of  self-indul 
gence  and  unbridled  passion.  Toward  the  little 
girl  I  noticed  that  he  bore  himself  with  a  kind 
ness  and  gentleness  of  manner  that  only  a  fond 
father  could  manifest.  I  only  toyed  with  my 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  327 

food  on  that  morning.  Appetite  left  me  with 
the  recognition  of  this  child  as  Julia's  daughter. 
I  had  no  question  touching  the  fact.  Her  hus 
band  and  child  were  before  me,  but  where  was 
she  ?  Dead,  or  living  separate  ? 

My  fixed  stare  at  the  child  attracted  her  no 
tice  ;  observing  this,  I  turned  my  gaze  away. 
When  I  looked  again  the  sombre  black  eyes 
of  her  father  were  scanning  my  countenance. 
There  was  an  evil  look  in  them,  a  cold,  cruel 
antagonism,  a  lurking  ill-nature,  a  serpent-like 
instinct  to  wound.  I  dropped  my  eyes  away 
from  his.  There  was  a  kind  of  dagger-thrust 
in  them  that  hurt  me.  But  to  the  child's  face 
I  turned  again  and  again.  More  and  more  per 
fect  grew  its  likeness  to  Julia's.  I  was  deeply 
disturbed.  Time  had  laid  a  smooth  surface 
over  my  heart,  but  it  was  broken  into  ripples 
and  fragments  in  a  moment.  Was  Julia  in  the 
house  ?  Should  I  meet  her  face  to  face  ?  The 
thought  had  power  to  disturb  me  seriously.  I 
felt  that  I  could  not  stand  in  her  presence  with 
out  betrayal  of  feeling. 

For  the  next  two  hours  I  moved  about  the 
parlors,  piazzas  and  grounds  of  the  hotel  in  an 
uneasy,  expectant  state  of  mind.  Several  times 


328  MARRYING   A   BEAUTY. 

I  encountered  the  child,  accompanied  by  a  col 
ored  servant-woman.  Her  beauty  was  faultless, 
but  it  was  marred  by  self-will,  fretfulness  and 
ill-nature  toward  the  servant,  on  whom  she  ex 
ercised  various  petty  tyrannies.  She  was  pos 
sessed  of  an  unquiet,  dissatisfied  spirit,  was 
always  seeking  for  new  pleasures,  but  never 
finding.  Twice  I  saw  her  li'ft  her  hand  and 
strike  the  servant  in  passion.  Each  time  the 
blow  hurt  me  as  if  I  had  been  struck  over  a 
half-healed  and  still  sensitive  wound. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  city  morning  papers 
came  in.  I  had  retired  to  one  of  the  parlors, 
which  happened  to  be  nearly  deserted,  and  was 
unfolding  my  newspaper,  when  there  came  in, 
through  the  door  opposite  to  where  I  was  sit 
ting,  the  tall,  dark,  gaunt  man  who  sat  opposite 
me  at  breakfast.  Leaning  heavily  on  his  arm 
with  both  hands,  one  clasped  within  the  other, 
was  a  showily-dressed  woman  whose  thin,  sal 
low  face  and  sunken  orbits  marked  her  as  a 
wasted  and  wasting  invalid.  But  there  was  a 
gleam  in  her  eyes  and  a  dullness  of  expression 
in  her  countenance  that  told  a  sadder  story 
still. 

They  moved  slowly  down  the  long  apartment, 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  329 

the  man  always  a  step  in  advance,  and  the 
woman  dragging,  as  it  were,  weakly  after  him. 
His  countenance  expressed  little  interest  in  and 
no  tenderness  for  his  companion.  Plainly,  she 
was  a  care  and  a  burden.  Forward  they  came, 
nearing  the  place  where  I  sat.  On  first  seeing 
them  I  had  raised  my  open  newspaper,  so  as  to 
more  than  half  conceal  my  face,  and  was  looking 
at  them  over  the  top.  As  they  stood  fronting 
me  I  let  the  newspaper  fall  and  looked  full  at 
them.  The  act  was  without  a  motive  on  my 
part — done  without  conscious  volition.  Slowly, 
and  without  interest  of  manner,  the  woman  lifted 
her  eyes  and  looked  at  me.  In  an  instant  all 
was  changed.  Electric  excitement  leaped  along 
every  nerve.  Out  of  the  leaden  dullness  of  her 
face  flashed  the  glow  of  startled  feeling.  Her 
hands  were  withdrawn  from  the  man's  arm, 
clasped  and  reached  forward  in  a  wild,  theatric 
way.  Her  lips  drew  apart ;  her  eyes,  widely  dis 
tended  and  fearful  to  look  upon,  burned  into 
mine.  Surprise,  fear,  terror,  swept  alternately 
over  her  countenance.  Then  a  low,  sad,  heart 
searching  cry  or  wail  broke  from  her  lips.  She 
would  have  fallen  had  not  the  man  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  I  saw  her  eyes  close  and  her  face  grow 

28* 


330  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

ashen,  but  I  did  not  move.  I  shrank  from 
touching  her.  There  were  others  in  the  room, 
and  two  or  three  of  them  came  to  the  man's  as 
sistance.  The  woman  was  by  this  time  uncon 
scious.  They  wished  to  lay  her  on  a  sofa,  but 
the  man  said,  "  No,  to  her  own  room."  And  so 
they  bore  her  away,  and  I  sat  immovable. 

"  Can  I  have  a  word  with  you,  sir  ?"  Some 
thing  over  two  hours  had  elapsed.  My  trunk 
was  packed,  and  I  was  turning  from  the  office 
after  having  paid  my  bill.  The  tones  were 
severe,  almost  threatening,  the  sinister  eyes, 
into  which  I  looked  calmly,  full  of  accusation 
and  cruelty.  The  tall,  dark  Southerner  con 
fronted  me  with  a  scowl. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it,"  I  answered,  and 
we  walked  together  out  of  the  office  and  along 
one  of  the  piazzas  until  we  reached  a  point 
where  we  were  entirely  alone.  The  man  point 
ed,  in  a  kind  of  peremptory  way,  to  a  chair,  which 
I  took.  He  sat  down  in  front  of  me.  His 
manner  was  excited,  and  to  some  extent  offens 
ive.  But  I  was  never  calmer  in  my  life. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Is  that  woman  your  wife?"  My  response 
was  in  this  interrogation. 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  331 

"  Yes,  sir !  She  is  my  wife  !"  He  was  em 
phatic. 

"  And  the  child  I  saw  with  her  this  morning 
is  her  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  my  child,"  he  answered. 

My  coolness  was  subduing  him.  His  manner 
changed  visibly. 

"  But  who  are  you  ?  That  is  the  question  I 
wish  to  have  answered."  This  time  his  manner 
was  without  offence. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  for  delaying  an  answer. 
First,  let  me  inquire  how  long  your  wife  has 
been  in  such  poor  health,  and  how  long  it  has 
been  since  her  mind  broke  down." 

I  saw  in  him  a  brief  struggle  with  angry  im 
patience,  which  he  overcame,  and  replied, 

"  Her  health  broke  down  a  year  ago,  and  her 
mind  has  been  failing  ever  since." 

"  May  I  ask  the  cause  ?"     ; 

This  was  pressing  him  too  far.  His  eyes 
flashed.  Almost  fiercely  he  answered,  "  No  !" 

There  followed  a  pause,  in  which  we  sat  look 
ing  at  each  other.  I  watched  his  face  until  I 
saw  the  angry  wave  subsiding.  Then  I  said : 

"  You  ask  who  I  am.  Do  you  still  desire  an 
answer?" 


332  MARRYING  A   BEAUTY. 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  I  want.  Speak ! 
Who  are  you  ?" 

"  Once " — I  lowered  my  voice  to  keep  it 
steady — "Once  I  was  the  husband  of  your 
wife." 

He  started  up  as  if  an  adder  had  stung  him. 
His  sallow  face  changed  to  a  dull  white,  and 
then  grew  darkly  crimson  with  the  returning 
flood.  A  little  while  he  stood  like  one  in  a 
labyrinth  of  thought,  blank  surprise  taking  the 
place  on  his  couatenance  of  imperious  demand. 
A  few  moments  more  and  he  left  me  without  a 
word  or  a  sign. 

An  hour  later  and  I  was  on  my  way  back  to 
the  city.  A  few  days  afterward  I  read  in  a  gos 
siping  letter  from  the  seashore  about  the  wife 
of  a  Southern  gentleman  who  had  become  so 
violently  insane  as  to  make  her  removal  to  an 
asylum  necessary.  Certain  particular  state 
ments  in  this  letter  left  me  in  no  doubt  touching 
the  person  to  whom  reference  had  been  made. 
It  was  Julia  ! 

My  uncle  paused  and  sat  silent  and  sober  for 
a  considerable  time.  He  then  resumed: 

"  I  should  not  have  thus  uncovered  the  past 


MARRYING  A   BEAUTY.  333 

had  not  the  motive  been  strong.  Julia  had  a 
daughter  beautiful  as  herself — the  one  I  saw 
as  a  child  at  the  seashore.  That  daughter  has 
grown  to  womanhood.  She  is  still  beautiful — 
beautiful  as  was  her  mother  at  her  age — but  her 
beauty  may  not  be  trusted.  I  have  seen  her.  I 
have  observed  her  closely.  Neither  mother  nor 
father  has  given  her  that  hereditary  basis  of 
character  to  which  a  true  man  may  conjoin  him 
self.  Her  name  is  Florence  Ware!" 

If  I  had  been  insane  enough  to  marry  my 
beauty  after  this,  I  would  have  deserved  disap 
pointment  and  misery.  But  my  uncle's  experi 
ence  was  a  sufficient  warning,  and  I  scarcely 
deemed  it  prudent  to  venture  on  an  experiment 
that  threatened  a  life-long  disaster. 


^F 


XXI. 

JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE. 

MAN  would  never  snap  me  up  after 
that  fashion  more  than  once,"  said 
Miss  Blair,  sharply,  as  Mr.  Armor  left 
the  breakfast-room  and  she  saw  the  tears  com 
ing  into  Mrs.  Armor's  eyes.  "  What  right  had 
John  to  speak  to  you  so  ?" 

The  young  wife's  lips  quivered,  and  a  tear  or 
two  dropped  over  her  cheeks. 

"  Unless  you're  the  spiritless  thing  I  never 
dreamed  you  were,  Jenny  Armor,"  added  Miss 
Blair,  warming  with  indignation,  "  you'll  teach 
John  the  lesson  he  needs  to  learn,  and  that  at 
once.  The  sooner  you  make  him  understand 
that  in  marrying  you  did  not  give  yourself  over 
to  a  master,  the  better  for  you  both." 

Now,  quick-tempered,  good-hearted  John 
Armor  felt  sorry  for  his  unguarded  speech  the 
moment  it  passed  his  lips,  and  ashamed  of  hav- 

334 


JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE.  335 

ing  spoken  unkindly  to  his  wife  before  a  third 
person.  As  he  was  closing  the  door  he  heard 
the  first  indignant  sentence  uttered  by  Miss 
Blair,  and  pausing  with  the  door  ajar,  got  the 
benefit  of  her  farther  utterances. 

Anger,  regret  and  mortification  were  the 
disturbing  elements  that  made  our  young  hus 
band  feel  anything  but  comfortable  as  he  left  the 
house. 

The  hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  some  peo 
ple  is  to  acknowledge  themselves  in  the  wrong, 
and  of  this  class  was  John  Armor.  He  might 
have  gone  back  and  made  it  all  up  with  Jenny, 
after  a  little  struggle  with  his  pride,  if  she  had 
been  alone,  but  to  confess  his  fault  before  Miss 
Blair  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment." 

o 

So  he  went  off  to  his  store  feeling  mean,  miser 
able  and  angry  by  turns. 

"  Teach  me  a  lesson !"  dropped  from  his  lips 
as  he  strode  along.  The  accuser  and  self-justi- 
fier  was  at  his  ear  trying  to  work  evil  between 
him  and  his  Jenny. 

" Teach  me  a  lesson!  She  had  best  not  try 
any  experiments  of  that  sort." 

Then  his  good  angel  got  audience  and  said : 
"  Is  this  the  gentle  husband,  the  strong,  true 


336  JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE, 

man,  who  was  to  love  and  cherish  ?  Who  gave 
you  the  right  to  speak  unkindly  ? — to  rebuke 
and  reprove  ?" 

But  the  evil  counselor  made  angry  speech, 
saying :  "  Has  a  man  no  right  to  complain  when 
met  with  discomfort  in  consequence  of  his  wife's 
neglect  ?  If  he  toil  early  and  late  while  she  sits 
in  ease  at  home,  shall  he  not  dare  to  speak  a 
word  of  remonstrance,  though  everything  goes 
wrong  ?  There  may  be  spiritless  husbands  who 
will  meekly  submit,  but  John  Armor  is  not  one 
of  them !" 

And  now,  coming,  it  seemed,  from  a  distance, 
far  inward  or  upward,  sounded  a  gentle  but 
pleading  voice,  and  it  said  : 

"  This  is  not  well,  John  Armor." 

And  at  the  words  a  figure  grew  into  distinct 
ness  in  his  mind.  He  saw  his  Jenny — his  true 
and  pure  and  loving  young  wife — sitting  with 
bowed  head  and  sorrowful  face  and  wet  eyes, 
the  picture  of  suffering,  and  all  because  of  his 
harsh,  unkindly  speech. 

Almost  instantly  this  picture  faded,  and  a 
new  one  grew  out  of  the  confused  images  that 
remained.  The  form  of  Jenny  became  distinct 
once  more,  but  her  attitude  and  countenance 


JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE.  337 

were  changed.  She  stood  erect,  with  a  cold, 
unloving  face,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with 
angry  defiance,  and  at  the  same  time  out  of  his 
memory  into  his  thoughts  came  these  words : 

«  A  woman  moved  is  like  a  fountain  troubled ; 
Dark,  unseemly,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty." 

But  his  better  angel  pressed  near  again,4and 
turning  another  leaf,  brought  out  from  his 
memory  into  his  thought  these  lines : 

"  Oh,  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease 
Uncertain,  coy  and  hard  to  please  : 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !" 

And  then  another  page  of  memory  was 
turned,  on  which  a  never-to-be-erased  picture 
was  painted  in  strongest  outlines  and  deepest 
colors — the  picture  of  a  sick  bed,  and  a  dear, 
loving,  self-denying,  patient,  ministering  angel 
bending  over  it. 

"John  Armor,"  he  exclaimed,  half  aloud,  as 
this  picture  held  him  like  the  spell  of  a  magi 
cian,  "you  are  a  wretch  to  hurt  that  loving 
heart !" 

The  accuser  and  self-justifier — the  evil  spirit 
that  loved  only  to  work  alienation  and  give 

29  W 


33^  JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE. 

pain  to  human  hearts — pressed  in  again  and 
tried  to  obscure  the  picture,  but  in  vain.  John 
Armor  held  to  his  better  feelings,  and  repented 
of  his  unkindness.  Still,  the  words  of  Miss  Blair 
were  a  power  in  the  hands  of  the  evil  spirit, 
who  kept  perpetually  thrusting  them  in  un- 

«• 

guarded  .moments  into  the  thoughts  of  John 
Armor. 

"John  is  not  my  master,"  answered  Jenny 
Armor,  with  a  flash  in  her  wet  eyes  as  she 
heard  her  husband  shut  the  street  door  with  a 
heavy  jar. 

"  Of  course  he  is  not,  and  the  sooner  he  is 
made  conscious  of  the  fact,  the  better  for  you 
both,  as  I  have  said.  No  man  has  a  right  to 
speak  to  his  wife  in  the  way  he  spoke  to  you 
just  now.  If  you  bear  it  tamely,  he  will  be 
master  and  you  slave :  there  will  be  a  husband 
and  wife  only  in  name." 

A  hard,  half-angry  expression  grew  slowly  in 
the  face  of  Jenny  Armor.  She  did  not  answer, 
but  an  evil  counselor  within  was  seconding  the 
evil  counselor  without.  She  began  writing  bit 
ter  things  on  the  tablet  of  thought  against  her 
repentant  husband. 

"  Better  grapple  with  the  enemy  now  while 


JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE.  339 

you  are  young  and  strong  and  free,"  said  the 
false  friend. 

"  My  enemy !"  replied  Jenny,  turning  quickly 
upon  Miss  Blair.  The  word  startled  her.  "  My 
enemy !" 

"  Yes,  your  enemy.  I  call  things  by  the  right 
name.  Is  the  man  or  woman  who  seeks  to 
make  you  a  slave  a  friend  or  an  enemy  ?" 

"  John  Armor  my  enemy  !"  A  dazed  kind  of 
look  came  into  Jenny's  face.  It  flushed  and 
paled  by  turns,  then  grew  fiery  red,  while  flashes 
leaped  from  her  eyes. 

"Nancy  Blair!"  —  Jenny's  voice  trembled 
with  suppressed  feeling — "this  has  gone  far 
enough." 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  please !"  answered  Miss 
Blair,  in  a  tone  that  was  meant  to  annoy.  "  You 
are  like  the  rest  of  them ;"  and  she  tossed  her 
head  with  as  much  contempt  of  manner  as  she 
felt  it  safe  to  assume.  "  John  will  come  home 
at  dinner-time  and  snub  you  as  he  did  this 
morning,  and  you  will  drop  a  tear  meekly  and 
bear  it  all  with  wifely  submission.  It  is  woman's 
lot.  Oh  dear !  Don't  I  wish,  sometimes,  that  I 
had  one  of  these  top-lofty  fellows  to  deal  with ! 
Wouldn't  I  take  him  down !" 


340  JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE. 

Jenny  kept  silent.  She  felt  that  she  was  in 
dangerous  company — that  a  person  like  Miss 
Blair,  if  permitted  to  influence  her,  would  lead 
her  into  trouble. 

Miss  Blair  tried  to  pursue  the  subject,  but 
Jenny  turned  it  aside,  and  at  last  resolutely  ig 
nored  it.  Miss  Blair  was  disgusted  with  her 
friend,  and  went  home  early  in  the  day,  much 
to  Jenny's  relief  of  mind. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  the  trouble  between 
Carman  and  his  wife  ?"  said  a  friend  of  John 
Armor  that  morning. 

"  No.     What  is  it?"  asked  the  latter. 

"  She  was  a  Miss  Lewis." 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  her  very  well.  A  beautiful, 
spirited  girl." 

"  High-strung,  as  we  say.  Well,  her  husband 
undertook  to  be  a  little  stiff  on  the  marital  pre 
rogative  question,  assumed  the  role  of  head  and 
master  of  the  household,  and  set  himself  to 
fault-finding  when  things  were  not  just  to  his 
fancy.  One  morning — so  the  story  goes — he  was 
particularly  sharp  on  his  wife  at  the  breakfast- 
table  in  presence  of  a  lady  visitor,  one  of  that 
class  not  greatly  troubled  with  the  man-fearing, 
man-pleasing  spirit.  After  he  had  gone  away, 


JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE.  341 

this  lady — so  the  story  continues — took  occasion 
to  animadvert  pretty  strongly  on  the,  tyranny 
of  husbands,  and  the  duty  of  wives  to  protect 
themselves  against  their  oppressions  and  exac 
tions,  and  succeeded  in  so  exasperating  Mrs. 
Carman  that  in  a  fit  of  blind  passion  she  left 
her  home  and  has  not  since  returned." 

"A  most  unfortunate  affair,"  said  Armor  as 
a  low  shiver  of  concern  went  down  to  his  heart. 
"  A  meddlesome,  mischief-making  woman  like 
that  ought  to  be  hung !" 

"  Hanging  is  rather  severe,"  answered  the 
friend,  smiling  at  Armor's  almost  savage 
warmth. 

The  young  man's  peace  of  mind  was  gone. 
How  nearly  parallel  were  the  cases !  He  had 
been  sharp  on  his  wife  at  breakfast-time,  and  in 
presence  of  a  visitor,  and  this  visitor  had,  as  he 
knew,  advised  Jenny  to  set  herself  against  him, 
to  teach  him  a  lesson.  What  if,  in  a  moment  of 
anger,  she  had  gone  off  as  Mrs.  Carman  had 
done  ?  The  thought  stunned  him.  He  was 
filled  with  pain,  alarm  and  anxiety. 

"  If  she  has  done  this,  it  will  be  the  saddest 
day  in  her  life  and  mine,"  he  said  to  himself,  a 
-bitter  realization  of  the  truth  of  what  he  uttered 

29  * 


342  JOHN  ARMORS  SCARE. 

in  his  heart.  He  was  proud  and  not  given  to 
concession.  For  a  crisis  in  life  like  this  he  was 
peculiarity  unfitted.  There  was  nothing  so  hard 
for  him  as  to  acknowledge  a  wrong.  He  could 
render  sevenfold  of  reparation  if  he  might 
withhold  confession.  Feeling  how  impossible  it 
would  be  for  him  to  go  after  and  seek  a  recon 
ciliation  with  Jenny  if  she  should  try  the  mad 
experiment  of  going  away,  he  saw  that  such  a 
step  on  her  part  would  be  the  shipwreck  of 
happiness  to  both. 

Slowly  the  hours  went  by.  It  seemed  to 
John  Armor  as  if  the  time  for  going  to  dinner 
would  never  come.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual  he  left  his  store  and  took  his 
way  homeward.  How  still  the  house  seemed 
as  he  entered !  A  shadow  of  evil  portent  fell 
upon  him  as  he  opened  the  door  of  their  cozy 
sitting-room  and  found  no  one  there.  Every 
thing  was  in  order,  not  a  book  nor  a  chair  out 
of  place,  nothing  to  show  that  Jenny  had  used 
the  room  that  morning.  He  stood  still,  heark 
ening,  but  only  the  strong,  heavy  beat  of  his 
heart  was  audible  in  his  ears. 

With  quick  steps  he  went  over  to  the  cham 
ber.  Jenny  was  not  there !  He  did  not  call 


JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE.  343 

her.  He  shrunk  in  strange  dread  and  reluc 
tance  from  that.  To  send  her  name  into  the 
oppressive  stillness  and  get  back  only  an  echo 
was  more  than  he  felt  that  he  could  bear. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Armor?"  he  asked.  He 
had  gone  down  to  the  dining-room  and  spoke 
to  a  servant  who  was  setting  the  table. 

The  girl  started  as  she  looked  into  his  scared 
face. 

"  Isn't  she  in  her  room  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  No." 

"Nor  in  the  sitting-room?" 

"  No." 

The  girl's  face  now  reflected  the  anxious  ex 
pression  that  Armor  was  not  able  to  conceal. 
But  suddenly  he  saw  it  change,  and  a  queer 
smile  dimple  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
At  the  same  moment  a  hand  was  laid  on  his 
arm.  Turning  quickly,  he  looked  into  the 
bright,  loving  eyes  and  smiling  face  of  Jenny. 

"  Oh,  darling !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  tender 
ness  and  fervor  that  was  like  an  old  love-pas 
sage,  and  he  kissed  her  half  wildly,  not  heeding 
the  presence  of  a  servant. 

There  were  no  explanations.  John's  pride 
would  not  let  him  make  confession  of  all  he 


344  JOHN  ARMOR'S  SCARE. 

had  heard,  thought  and  suffered,  but  the  lesson 
he  had  received  needed  not  to  be  learned  over 


again. 


Miss  Blair  would  have  wrought  an  evil  work 
between  Jenny  and  her  husband  if  she  could 
have  done  so,  but  instead  of  an  agent  of  evil 
she  had  been  made  an  instrument  of  good. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  John  Armor  got 
well  over  the  scare  of  that  day,  and  its  memory 
is  a  perpetual  restraint  on  his  quick  temper  and 
readiness  for  overbearing  speech. 


XXII. 
NOB ODY  BUT  JOHN. 

OME  one  is  coming,"  said  I  as  the 
click  of  the  shutting  gate  fell  on  my 
ears,  and  I  looked  at  Maggy's  soiled, 
untidy  dress  and  tumbled  hair. 

Maggy  started,  and  glanced  hastily  from  the 
window,  then  sat  down  again  in  a  careless  way, 
remarking,  as  she  did  so : 

"  It's  nobody  but  John." 

Nobody  but  John!  And  who  do  you  think 
that  nobody  was  ?  Only  her  husband. 

Nobody  but  John  ! 

A  few  moments  afterward  John  Fairburn  came 
into  the  room  where  we  were  sitting,  and  gave 
me  one  of  his  frank,  cordial  greetings.  I  had 
known  him  for  many  years,  and  long  before  his 
marriage.  I  noticed  that  he  gave  an  annoyed 
glance  at  his  wife,  but  did  not  speak  to  her. 
The  meaning  of  this  annoyance  and  indifference 

345 


34-6  NOBODY  BUT  JOHN. 

was  plain  to  me,  for  John  had  come  of  a  neat 
and  tidy  family.  His  mother's  housekeeping  had 
always  been  notable.  She  was  poor,  but  as 
"  time  and  water  are  to  be  had  for  nothing " 
— this  was  one  of  her  sayings — she  always 
managed  to  have  things  about  clean  and  orderly. 

Maggy  Lee  had  a  pretty  face,  bright  eyes  and 
charming  little  ways  that  were  very  taking  with 
the  young  men,  and  so  was  quite  a  belle  before 
she  got  out  of  her  teens.  She  had  a  knack  of 
fixing  her  ribbons,  or  tying  her  scarf,  or  arrang 
ing  her  hair,  shawl  or  dress  in  a  way  to  give 
grace  and  charm  to  her  person.  None  but  her 
most  intimate  friends  knew  of  the  untidiness 
that  pervaded  her  room  and  person  when  at 
home  and  away  from  common  observation. 

Poor  John  Fairburn  was  taken  in  when  he 
married  Maggy  Lee.  He  thought  that  he  was 
getting  the  tidiest,  neatest,  sweetest  and  most 
orderly  girl  in  town,  but  discovered  too  soon 
that  he  was  united  to  a  careless  slattern.  She 
would  dress  for  other  people's  eyes  because 
she  had  a  natural  love  of  admiration,  but  at 
home  and  for  her  husband  she  put  on  any  old 
dud,  and  went  looking  often  "like  the  Old 
Scratch,"  as  the  saying  is. 


NOBODY  BUT  JOHN.  347 

On  the  particular  occasion  of  which  I  am 
speaking — it  was  after  she  and  John  had  been 
married  over  a  year — her  appearance  was  al 
most  disgusting.  She  did  not  have  on  even  a 
morning-dress,  only  a  faded  and  tumbled  chintz 
sack  above  a  soiled  skirt,  no  collar,  slippers 
down  at  the  heels  and  dirty  stockings.  Her 
hair  looked  like  a  hurrah's  nest,  if  any  one 
knows  what  that  is.  I  don't,  but  I  suppose  it  is 
the  perfection  of  disorder.  No  one  could  love 
such  a  looking  creature.  That  was  simply  im 
possible. 

"  Nobody  but  John  !"  I  looked  at  the  bright, 
handsome  young  man,  and  wondered.  He  ate 
his  dinner  almost  in  silence,  and  then  went  back 
to  his  work.  I  had  never  seen  him  so  moody. 

"What's  come  over  John?"  I  asked  as  he 
went  out. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !"  his  wife  answered. 
"  Something  wrong  at  the  shop,  I  suppose. 
He's  had  trouble  with  one  of  the  men.  He's 
foreman,  you  know." 

"  Are  you  sure  it's  only  that  ?"  I  asked,  look 
ing  serious. 

"  That,  or  something  about  his  work.  There's 
nothing  else  to  worry  him." 


NOBODY  BUT  JOHN. 

I  was  silent  for  a  while,  debating  with  myself 
whether  good  or  harm  would  come  of  a  little 
plain  talk  with  John's  wife.  She  was  rather 
quick-tempered,  I  knew,  and  easy  to  take 
offence.  At  last  I  ventured  the  remark : 

"  Maybe  things  are  not  just  to  his  liking  at 
home  ?" 

"At  home!"  Maggy  turned  on  me  with  a 
flash  of  surprise  in  her  face.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"  Men  like  beauty  and  taste  and  neatness  in 
their  wives  as  well  as  in  their  sweethearts,"  I 
said. 

The  crimson  mounted  to  her  hair.  At  the 
same  moment  I  saw  her  glance  at  a  looking- 
glass  that  hung  opposite  to  her  on  the  wall. 
She  sat  very  still,  yet  with  a  startled  look  in 
her  eyes,  until  the  flush  faded  and  her  face 
became  almost  pale. 

"  Maggy,"  said  I,  rising  and  drawing  my  arm 
around  her,  "come  up  stairs.  I  have  something 
very  serious  to  say  to  you." 

We  walked  from  the  little  dining-room  and 
up  to  her  chamber  in  silence.  I  then  said, 

"  Maggy,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  dear 
friend  of  mine  who  made  shipwreck  of 


NOBODY  BUT  JOHN.  349 

ness  and  life.  It  is  a  sad  story,  but  I  am  sure  it 
will  interest  you  deeply.  She  was  my  cousin, 
and  her  name  was  —  " 

Maggy   bent    forward,    listening   attentively. 
she    asked    as    I    hesitated    on    the 


name. 

-Helen." 

"  Not  Helen  White,  who  married  John  Hard 
ing,  and  was  afterward  deserted  by  her  hus 
band?" 

"  Yes,  my  poor  dear  cousin  Helen.  It  is  of 
her  I  am  going  to  tell  you." 

"  I  never  knew  why  her  husband  went  off  as 
he  did,"  said  Maggy.  "  Some  said  he  was  to 
blame,  and  some  put  all  the  fault  on  her.  How 
was  it?" 

"  Both  were  to  blame,  but  she  most,"  I  re 
plied.  "John  Harding  was,  like  your  husband, 
one  of  the  neatest  and  most  orderly  of  men. 
Anything  untidy  in  his  home  or  in  the  person 
of  his  wife  annoyed  and  often  put  him  out  of 
humor,  but  he  did  not,  as  he  should  have  done, 
speak  plainly  to  his  wife,  and  let  her  see  exactly 
how  he  felt  and  in  what  he  would  like  a  change. 
If  he  had  done  so,  Helen  would  have  tried  —  as 
every  good  wife  should  —  to  conform  herself 

30 


3 SO  NOBODY  BUT  JOHN. 

more  to  his  tastes  and  wishes.  But  he  was  a 
silent,  moody  sort  of  a  man  when  things  did  not 
go  just  to  suit  him,  and  instead  of  speaking  out 
plainly,  brooded  over  Helen's  faults  and  wor 
ried  himself  into  fits  of  ill-humor,  and  what 
was  worse  than  all,  grew  at  length  indifferent  to 
his  home  and  wife,  and  sought  pleasanter  sur 
roundings  and  more  attractive  company  abroad. 

"  Every  man  thus  estranged  from  his  home  is 
in  danger,  and  Harding  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  Temptation  lay  about  his  feet,  and  that 
commonest  temptation  of  all,  the  elegantly  fitted 
up  billiard  and  drinking  saloon. 

"They  had  been  married  just  about  as  long 
as  you  and  John  have  been  when  the  sad  catas 
trophe  of  their  lives  took  place.  I  had  called  to 
spend  the  day  with  Helen,  and  found  her  in  her 
usual  condition  of  personal  untidiness  and  dis 
order.  When  her  husband  came  home  at  din 
ner-time  I  noticed  with  painful  concern  that  he 
had  been  drinking — not  very  freely,  but  just 
enough  to  show  itself  in  captious  ill-humor. 
Helen  had  not  dressed  for  dinner,  but  presented 
herself  at  the  table  without  even  a  clean  collar, 
and  with  an  old  faded  shawl  drawn  about  her 
shoulders.  She  looked  anything  but  attractive. 


NOB  ODY  B  UT  JOHN.  3  5  I 

"  I  saw  her  husband's  eyes  glance  toward  her 
across  the  table  with  an  expression  that  chilled 
me.  It  was  a  hard,  angry,  determined  expres 
sion.  He  was  scarcely  civil  to  me,  and  snapped 
his  wife  sharply  two  or  three  times  during  the 
meal.  At  its  close  he  left  the  table  without  a 
word,  ancl  went  up  stairs. 

"  *  What's  the  matter  with  John  ?'  I  asked. 

"  '  Dear  above  knows  !'  replied  Helen.  '  He's 
been  acting  queer  for  a  good  while.  I  can't 
imagine  what's  come  over  him.' 

" '  Does  he  come  home  in  this  way  often  ?'  I 
asked. 

"  *  Yes,  he's  moody  and  disagreeable  as  he 
can  be  most  of  the  time.  I'm  getting  dreadfully 
worried  about  it.' 

"  As  we  talked  we  heard  John  moving  about 
with  heavy  footfalls  in  the  rooms  above.  Pres 
ently  he  came  down,  and  stood  for  a  little  while 
in  the  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  if  in  hesita 
tion.  Then  he  went  to  the  street  door,  passed 
out  and  shut  it  hard  after  him. 

"  Helen  caught  her  breath  with  a  start,  and 
turned  a  little  pale. 

"  *  What's  the  matter  ?'  I  asked,  seeing  the 
strangeness  of  her  look. 


352  NOBODY  BUT  JOHN. 

"'I  don't  know/  she  replied,  in  a  choking 
voice,  laying  her  hand  at  the  same  time  on  her 
breast,  '  but  I  feel  as  if  something  dreadful  were 
going  to  happen.' 

"  She  got  up  from  the  table,  and  I  drew  my 
arm  around  her.  I  too  felt  a  sudden  depression 
of  spirits.  We  went  slowly  up  to  her  chamber, 
where  we  spent  the  afternoon,  and  I  then  took 
upon  myself  the  office  of  a  friend,  and  talked 
seriously  to  my  cousin  about  her  neglect  of  per 
sonal  neatness,  hinting  that  the  cause  of  her 
husband's  estrangement  from  his  home  and 
altered  manner  toward  herself  might  all  spring 
from  this  cause.  She  was  a  little  angry  with 
me  at  first,  but  I  pressed  the  subject  home  with 
a  tender  seriousness  that  did  the  work  of  con 
viction,  and  as  evening  drew  on  she  dressed 
herself  with  care  and  neatness.  With  a  fresh 
ribbon  tied  in  her  hair  and  color  a  little  raised 
from  mental  excitement,  she  looked  charming 
and  lovable.  I  waited  with  interest  to  see  the 
impression  she  would  make  on  her  husband. 
He  could  not  help  being  charmed  back  into  the 
lover,  I  was  sure.  But  he  did  not  come  home 
to  tea.  We  waited  for  him  a  whole  hour  after 
the  usual  time,  and  then  sat  down  to  the  table 


NOBODY  BUT  JOHN.  353 

alone,  but  neither  of  us  could  do  more  than  sip 
a  little  tea. 

"  I  went  home  soon  after  with  a  pressure  of 
concern  at  my  heart  for  which  I  could  not  ac 
count.  All  night  I  dreamed  uncomfortable 
dreams.  In  the  morning,  soon  after  breakfast, 
I  ran  over  to  see  Helen.  I  found  her  in  her 
room,  sitting  in  her  night-dress,  the  picture  of 
despair.  , 

"  '  What  is  it  ?'  I  asked,  eagerly.  '  What  has 
happened  ?' 

"  She  looked  at  me  heavily,  like  one  not  yet 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  a  stunning  blow. 

" '  Dear  cousin,  what  is  the  matter?'  I  said. 

"  I  now  saw  by  a  motion  of  her  hand  that  it 
held  tightly  clutched  a  piece  of  paper.  She 
reached  it  to  me.  It  was  a  letter,  and  read  : 

"  *  We  cannot  live  happily  together,  Helen. 
You  are  not  what  I  believed  myself  getting 
when  we  were  married — not  the  sweet,  lovely, 
lovable  girl  that  charmed  my  fancy  and  won  me 
from  all  others.  Alas  for  us  both  that  it  is  so  ! 
There  has  been  a  shipwreck  of  two  lives. 
Farewell !  I  shall  never  return.' 

"  And  this  was  all,  but  it  broke  the  heart  of 
my  poor  cousin.  To  this  day,  though  nearly 

30*  X 


354  NOBODY  BUT  JOHN. 

three  years  have  passed,  she  has  never  heard 
from  her  husband. 

"  I  saw 'her  last  week  in  the  country  home  to 
which  she  has  been  taken  by  her  friends — a 
wreck  both  in  mind  and  body.  She  was  sitting1 
in  an  upper  room,  from  the  windows  of  which 
could  be  seen  a  beautiful  landscape.  She  was 
"neatly  attired,  and  a  locket  containing  her  hus 
band's  picture  hung  at  her  throat.  Her  head 
was  drooped  and  her  eyes  on  the  floor  when  I 
entered,  but  she  raised  herself  quickly  and  with 
a  kind  of  start.  I  saw  a  momentary  eager  flush 
in  her  face,  dying  out  quickly  and  leaving  it 
inexpressibly  sad. 

"  '  I  thought  it  was  John,'  she  said  mournfully. 
'  Why  don't  he  come  ?' ' 

I  had  to  stop  here,  for  Maggy  broke  out  sud 
denly  into  a  wild  fit  of  sobbing  and  crying 
which  lasted  for  some  time. 

u  What  ails  you,  dear  ?"  I  asked  as  she  began 
to  be  a  little  composed. 

"  Oh,  you  have  frightened  me  so !  If  John 
should—" 

She  cut  short  the  sentence,  but  her  frightened 
face  left  me  in  no  doubt  as  to  what  was  in  her 
thoughts. 


NOBODY  BUT  JOHN.  355 

She  arose  and  walked  about  the  room  in  an 
uncertain  way  for  some  moments,  and  then  sat 
down  again,  drawing  in  her  breath  heavily. 

"If  young  wives,"  I  remarked,  believing  that 
in  her  present  state  the  truth  was  the  best 
thing  to  say,  "would  take  half  the  pains  in 
making  themselves  personally  attractive  to  their 
husbands  that  they  did  to  charm  their  lovers, 
more  of  them  would  find  the  lover  continued  in 
the  husband.  Is  a  man,  think  you,  less  an  ad 
mirer  of  womanly  grace  and  beauty  after  he 
becomes  a  husband  than  he  was  before  ?" 

"  Hush !  hush !"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice. 
"  I  see  it  all !  I  comprehend  it  all."  And  she 
glanced  down  at  herself.  "I  look  hateful  and 
disgusting." 

After  a  plain,  earnest  talk  with  Maggy,  I  went 
home.  I  give  her  own  words  as  to  what  hap 
pened  afterward. 

"  I  was  wretched  all  the  afternoon.  John  had 
acted  worse  than  usual  at  dinner-time,  and  what 
you  told  me  about  poor  Helen  set  my  fears  in 
motion  and  worried  me  half  to  death.  Long 
before  the  time  he  usually  came  home  I  dressed 
myself  with  care,  selecting  the  very  things  I  had 
heard  him  admire.  As  I  looked  at  myself  in  the 


356  NOBODY  BUT  JOHN. 

glass  I  saw  that  I  was  attractive ;  I  felt  as  I  had 
never  felt  before  that  there  was  a  power  in 
dress  that  no  woman  can  disregard  without  loss 
of  influence,  no  matter  what  her  position  or 
sphere  of  life. 

"  Supper-time  came.  I  had  made  something 
that  I  knew  John  liked,  and  was  waiting  for  him 
with  a  nervous  eagerness  it  was  impossible  to 
repress.  But  the  hour  passed,  and  his  well- 
known  tread  along  the  little  garden-walk  did 
not  reach  my  anxious  ears.  Five,  ten,  twenty 
minutes  beyond  his  hour  for  returning,  and  still 
I  was  alone.  Oh,  I  shiver  as  I  recall  the  wild 
fears  that  began  to  crowd  upon  me.  I  was 
standing  at  the  window,  behind  the  curtain, 
waiting  and  watching.  All  at  once  I  saw  him  a 
little  distance  from  the  house,  but  not  in  the 
direction  from  which  he  usually  came.  He  was 
walking  slowly,  and  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground.  His  whole  manner  was  that  of  one 
depressed  or  suffering.  I  dropped  the  curtain, 
and  went  back  into  our  little  breakfast-room  to 
see  that  supper  was  put  quickly  on  the  table. 
John  came  in,  and  went  up  stairs,  as  he  usually 
did,  to  change  his  coat  before  tea.  In  a  few 
minutes  I  rang  the  tea-bell,  and  then  seated 


NOB ODY  BUT  JOHN.  357 

myself  at  the  table  to  wait  for  him.  He  was 
longer  than  usual  in  making  himself  ready,  and 
then  I  heard  him  coming  down  slowly  and 
heavily,  as  if  there  were  no  spirit  in  him. 

"  My  heart  beat  strongly,  but  I  tried  to  look 
bright  and  smiling.  There  was,  oh,  so  dreary  a 
look  on  John's  face  as  I  first  saw  it  in  the  door. 
He  stood  still  just  a  moment  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me ;  then  the  dreary  look  faded  out ;  a  flash 
of  light  passed  over  it  as  he  stepped  forward 
quickly,  and  coming  to  where  I  sat,  stooped 
down  and  kissed  me.  Never  before  was  his 
kiss  so  sweet  to  my  lips. 

"  *  I  have  found  my  little  wife  once  more,'  he 
said,  softly  and  tenderly  and  with  a  quiver  in 
his  voice.  I  laid  my  head  back  upon  his  bosom, 
and  looking  up  into  his  face,  answered,  'And 
you  shall  never  lose  her  again.' ' 

And  I  think  he  will  not.  The  sweetness  of 
that  hour,  and  the  lesson  it  taught,  can  never  be 
forgotten  by  my  friend  Maggy. 


XXIII. 
LOVE,   A    GIVER. 

lOU'RE  a  selfish  man  !" 

The  words  leaped  out  with  a  quick, 
angry  impulse.  There  was  a  frown 
on  the  beautiful  face  and  a  flame  that  was  not 
of  love  in  the  bright  eyes. 

If  -the  soft  hand  laid  so  trustingly  in  his 
scarcely  three  months  before  had  struck  him  a 
stunning  blow,  Alfred  Williston  could  not  have 
been  more  surprised  or  hurt.  "Selfish!"  It 
was  the  first  time  that  sin  had  been  laid  at  his 
door.  "  He's  a  generous  fellow,  the  most  un 
selfish  man  alive,"  "  There's  not  a  mean  trait  in 
his  character," — such  things  had  been  said  of 
him  over  and  over  again,  and  repeated  in  his 
ears  by  partial  or  interested  friends,  until  he 
almost  believed  himself  the  personification  of 
unselfishness.  And  now  to  be  called  "a  selfish 
man  "  by  the  sweet  little  rosebud  mouth  that 

358 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  359 

looked  as  if  only  made  for  kisses — to  be  called 
"  a  selfish  man  "  by  her  to  whom  he  had  given 
all  he  had  in  the  world,  and  himself  in  the  bar 
gain  !  No  wonder  that  Alfred  Williston  stood 
dumb  before  his  pretty  wife. 

The  accusation  was  made,  and  for  good  or 
for  evil  it  must  stand.  No  taking  back  of  the 
words  can  take  back  their  meaning.  "  You're 
a  selfish  man !"  had  been  cut  by  sharply-uttered 
tones  deep  into  his  memory,  and  there  the  sen 
tence  would  remain.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
meet  the  charge.  To  have  done  so  would 
have  been  felt  as  a  degradation. 

"Good-morning!"  dropped  coldly  from  his 
lips,  and  he  went  away  without  offering  the 
usual  parting  kiss.  It  was  showery  at  home 
and  cloudy  at  the  office  for  the  greater  part  of 
that  forenoon. 

"  What's  the  matter,  my  friend  ?  You  look 
as  sober  as  a  judge  on  sentence  day!"  re 
marked  an  acquaintance  who  called  upon  Wil 
liston. 

"  Look  about  as  I  feel,"  was  moodily  an 
swered. 

"  Heigh-ho !  wind  in  the  wrong  direction  and 
moon  in  the  rainy  quarter  already  ?"  rejoined 


360  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

the  visitor,  familiarly,  with  a  sly,  provoking 
laugh. 

Williston  turned  his  face  partly  aside  that  its 
expression  might  be  concealed. 

"  Sunshine  and  shower,  summer  and  winter, 
you  will  have  these  alternations  like  the  rest  of 
mankind,  and  learn  to  bear  them  with-  philos 
ophy.^ 

"Do  you  think  me  a  very  selfish  man,  Ed 
ward  ?"  asked  Williston,  turning  upon  his  friend 
a  serious  face. 

"Selfish?  Oh  dear!  No,  not  very  selfish. 
I've  heard  you  called  the  most  generous  fellow 
alive.  But  we're  all  more  or  less  selfish,  you 
know — born  so,  and  can't  help  it,  unless  we  try 
harder  than  is  agreeable  to  most  people.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  had  a  very  good  opinion  of 
myself  as  touching  this  thing,  but  I  grow  less 
and  less  satisfied  every  day,  and  am  settling 
down  into  the  conclusion  that  I'm  no  better 
than  my  neighbors." 

"Well,  I  despise  a  selfish  man.  He's  the 
meanest  creature  alive  !"  Williston  spoke  with 
a  glow  of  indignation. 

"  He's  mean  just  in  the  degree  that  he's  self 
ish,"  replied  the  friend.  "And  as  we  are  all 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  361 

more  or  less  selfish,  we  are  all  more  or  less 
mean.  I  don't  see  how  we  are  to  get  away 
from  that  conclusion." 

Williston  knit  his  brows  like  one  annoyed  or 
perplexed. 

•  "  Has  anybody  called  you  selfish  ?"  asked  the 
friend. 

-Yes." 

"  Who  ?  The  little  darling  at  home  ?  Ha  !  I 
see  !  That's  the  trouble  !" 

The  young  husband's  deepening  color  be 
trayed  the  fact. 

"  She  called  you  selfish  ?  Ha !  Good  for 
Margy  !  Not  afraid  to  give  things  their  right 
name.  I  always  knew  she  was  a  girl  of  spirit. 
Selfish !  That's  interesting.  And  did  you 
really  fancy  that  you  were  unselfish  ?" 

This  half-in-sport,  half-in-earnest  speech  had 
the  effect  intended.  A  slight  glimpse  of  him 
self  as  seen  by  another's  eye  gave  Williston  a 
new  impression,  and  let  in  a  doubt  as  to  his 
being  altogether  perfect. 

"  And  you  think  me  selfish  ?"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  surprise.  "Well!  I  guess  there's  been 
a  new  dictionary  published  of  late." 

"  As  far  as  this  word  is  concerned,  the  heart 

31 


362  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

is  the  most  reliable  dictionary.  If  you  wish  to 
get  the  true  definition,  look  down  into  your 
heart,"  replied  the  friend. 

"  My  eyes  are  not,  perhaps,  as  sharp  as 
yours,"  said  Williston.  "I  don't  find  the  defi 
nition  there." 

"  Maybe  T  can  help  you  to  a  clearer  vision. 
Why  did  you  marry  Margy  ?" 

"  Because  I  loved  her." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  said  the  friend,  with 
provoking  calmness. 

"  Take  care,  Fred  !     I  shall  get  angry." 

"  Oh  no !  You're  too  sensible  and  too  well 
poised  for  that.  Answer  my  question.  Are 
you  quite  sure  ?" 

"As  sure  as  death!" 

"  It's  my  opinion  that  you  married  because 
you  loved  yourself  more  than  you  did  Margy." 

"Now,  this  goes  beyond  all  endurance!"  ex 
claimed  Williston.  "  Is  there  a  conspiracy 
against  me  ?" 

"  Gently,  gently,  my  friend.  The  mind  is 
never  clear  when  Disturbed.  You  loved  Margy — 
there  is  no  doubt  in  the  world  of  that — loved 
her  and  do  love  her  very  dearly.  But  is  your 
love  unselfish  ?  That  is  the  great  question  now 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  363 

at  issue.  A  boy  loves  a  ripe  peach,  and  climbs 
after  it  that  he  may  enjoy  its  flavor.  In  what 
did  your  love  of  Margy  differ  from  this  boy's 
love  of  the  peach  ?  Was  it  to  bless  the  sweet 
maiden — to  give  her  yourself — that  you  sought 
her  with  a  lover's  ardor?  Or  was  it  to  bless 
yourself?  Did  you  think  how  much  she  would 
enjoy  your  love  —  how  much  happiness  you 
would  give  her — or  did  you  think  chiefly  of 
your  own  joy  ?  Don't  frown  so !  Put  away 
that  injured  look.  Go  down,  like  a  man,  into 
..your  consciousness,  and  see  how  it  really  is. 
If  you  find  all  right,  then  you  stand  firm  in 
serene  self-approval ;  if  all  is  not  right,  then 
you  will  know  what  to  do.  Love  seeks  to  bless 
its  object — is  all  the  while  endeavoring  to  min 
ister  delight — is  a  perpetual  giver." 

The  hot  flushes  began  to  die  out  of  Willis- 
ton's  face.  He  was  looking  down  into  his 
heart  and  getting  some  new  revelations  of 
himself,  and  they  were  not  satisfactory.  How 
had  he  loved  Margy?  What  had  been  the 
quality  of  his  love  ?  Never,  before  had  such 
questions  intruded  themselves — never  before 
had  he  found  queries  so  difficult  to  answer.  A 
troubled,  anxious  countenance  and  a  deep  sigh 


364  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

attested  his  disappointment  in  this  self-investi 
gation. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  to  be  angry  or  grate 
ful,"  he  said,  knitting  his  brows.  "  Is  it  a  true 
or  a  false  mirror  that  you  are  holding  up  before 
me  ?  Is  the  spectrum  growing  more  and  more 
distinct,  an  image  of  myself?  I  am  in  doubt 
and  confusion." 

"  Love  is  a  giver,"  answered  his  friend — 
"  does  not  think  of  itself — desires  only  to  bless. 
If  you  have  so  loved  Margy,  then  has  she 
wronged  you.  But  if  you  have  thought  mainly, 
of  yourself,  of  your  own  delight,  then,  I  trow, 
the  dear  little  woman  was  not  so  far  wrong 
when  she  called  you  selfish." 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  said  Williston,  speak 
ing  soberly:  "I  take  pleasure  in  giving  her 
pleasure.  Any  want  that  she  might  express  I 
would  gratify,  if  in  my  power.  I  could  not 
deny  her  anything." 

"  Except  the  denial  of  yourself,"  remarked 
the  friend. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  they  looked  intently  at 
each  other  for  some  moments. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,"  said 
Williston. 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  365 

"If  Margy  wanted  a  set  of  Amoor  sables 
costing  a  thousand  dollars,  and  you  had  the 
money  with  which  to  buy  them,  her  desire 
would  be  gratified." 

"  Undoubtedly.  I  would  find  pleasure  in 
meeting  her  wishes,"  was  promptly  answered. 

"  If  she  had  a  fancy  for  diamonds  or  India 
shawls — for  elegant  furniture  and  pictures — and 
you  had  the  means  to  gratify  her  tastes,  you 
would  find  delight  in  giving  her  the  possession 
of  these  things.  You  would  let  her  have  her 
own  sweet  will  in  everything." 

"  You  have  said  it,  my  friend.  Nothing 
pleases  me  so  much  as  to  see  her  gratified." 

"  No  great  self-denial  in  all  this,  however. 
In  the  cases  supposed  you  are  entirely  able  to 
give  what  Margy  asks  for,  and  no  special  love 
of  money  comes  in  to  chill  your  ardor.  It  is 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  meet  her 
wishes.  But  let  us  take  some  other  case. 
There  is  to  be  a  musical  party  at  your  friend 
Watson's.  You  care  but  little  for  music,  and 
less  for  musical  people.  The  case  is  different 
with  Margy.  With  music  and  musical  people 
she  is  in  her  element.  You  come  home  with 
a  new  book  from  a  favorite  author,  promising 

31* 


366  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

yourself  an  evening  of  enjoyment  in  reading 
aloud  to  your  wife.  She  meets  you  with  face 
all  aglow,  and  in  her  hand  a  note  of  invitation 
from  the  Watsons.  '  It  will  be  such  a  delight 
ful  time !'  she  exclaims,  in  her  enthusiasm. 
Now  comes  the  true  test  of  your  love — now  its 
quality  must  stand  revealed.  If  she  had  known 
about  the  new  book  and  the  pleasure  you  had 
promised  yourself  in  reading  aloud  to  her 
through  the  evening,  I  am  very  sure  she  would 
have  sent  a  note  of  excuse  to  the  Watsons,  and 
cheerfully  denied  herself,  for  your  sake,  the 
delights  of  a  musical  evening.  But  knowing 
nothing  of  this,  she  lets  fancy  revel  in  antici 
pated  enjoyment,  and  does  not  think,  perhaps, 
of  your  defective  musical  taste.  Thus  stands 
the  case,  my  friend,  and  how  will  you  meet  it? 
In  the  other  case,  it  was  the  generous  hand 
that  gave  of  its  abundance.  Now,  it  is  sheer 
self-denial." 

Williston  drew  a  heavy  sigh,  moved  himself 
restlessly  and  looked  down  upon  the  floor. 

"  This  love  that  we  talk  so  much  about,"  re 
sumed  the  friend,  "  is  a  very  subtle  thing,  and 
very  apt  to  hide  from  us  its  true  quality.  It  is 
much  oftener  love  of  self  than  love  of  the  ob- 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  367 

ject  sought.  Hence  we  have  so  much  unhap- 
piness  in  the  state  of  marriage,  which,  on  the 
theory  of  mutual  love,  ought  to  be  full  of  bliss. 
But  I  am  using  time  that  cannot  well  be  spared 
to-day,  so,  good-morning.  If  Margy  has  done 
you  a  wrong,  help  her  to  see  it,  and  she  will  not 
only  apologize  fof  calling  you  selfish,  but  cover 
your  lips  with  penitent  kisses." 

The  case  supposed,  touched  the  difficulty  at 
its  very  core.  Since  Williston's  marriage  he 
had  shown  himself  gifted  with  but  a  feeble 
spirit  of  self-denial.  He  enjoyed  his  home  and 
his  wife,  but  not  in  a  generous  spirit.  She  was 
more  social,  and  her  tastes  had  received  a  bet 
ter  cultivation.  She  enjoyed  music  and  art 
intensely.  Her  soul  responded  lovingly  to  all 
things  beautiful.  After  his  friend  left  him,  Wil- 
liston,  in  the  new  light  which  had  penetrated  his 
mind,  began  to  see  the  relation  existing  between 
himself  and  his  wife  in  some  different  aspects. 
One  little  incident  after  another  was  called  up 
from  memory  and  reviewed,  and  he  saw  in  them, 
as  in  a  mirror,  an  image  of  himself  so  different 
from  any  before  presented  that  he  was  filled 
with  pain  and  surprise.  Such  a  thing  as  self- 
denial  had  scarcely  come  within  the  range  of 


368  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

his  virtues.  Self-denial  he  had  exacted  often. 
It  had  been  no  unusual  thing  for  Margy  to  de 
fer  her  tastes  and  wishes  to  his,  and  he  could 
think  of  many  cases  in  which  she  must  have 
done  so  at  considerable  sacrifice  of  feeling. 

A  new  sentiment  began  to  pervade  the  mind 
of  Williston — a  deeper  and  tenderer  feeling  for 
his  young  wife — and  in  this  new  sentiment  he 
had  a  perception  of  something  purer  and  fuller 
of  joy  than  anything  hitherto  experienced — the 
joy  of  giving  up  even  his  very  life's  love  for 
another. 

"  Dear  Margy !"  he  said,  speaking  to  himself 
in  this  new  state.  "  The  tramp  of  my  heedless 
foot  must  have  been  very  crushing,  to  have  ex 
torted  that  cry  of  pain,  for  your  charge  of  self 
ishness  was  but  the  voice  of  suffering  that  could 
not  be  repressed.  Many  times  had  I  trampled 
upon,  many  times  wounded,  the  love  given  to 
me  so  lavishly,  but  never  before  did  the  bruised 
heart  reveal  its  anguish." 

The  tears  that  gushed  from  the  eyes  of  Margy 
Williston  as  her  husband  turned  so  coldly  from 
her  and  left  the  house  rained  on  for  over  an 
hour ;  for  the  greater  part  of  this  time  she  in 
dulged  in  accusing  thoughts.  She  went  over 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  369 

instance  after  instance  of  his  selfish  disregard 
of  her  pleasure,  and  recounted  the  many  times 
she  had  given  up  her  desires  to  gratify  his 
demands.  But  this  state  of  feeling  in  time 
changed,  or  wore  itself  out.  A  calm  succeeded 
in  which  her  better  nature  had  an  opportunity 
to  speak.  The  hand  of  pain  folded  away  many 
coverings  that  had  been  laid  over  her  heart, 
and  she  could  see  into  some  of  the  hidden 
places  never  before  revealed.  She  did  not  find 
everything  in  the  order  and  beauty  imagined  to 
exist.  She  was  not  so  loving  and  unselfish  as 

o 

she  had  fancied  herself  to  be.  There  came  a 
new  gush  of  tears,  but  the  rain  was  gentler, 
and,  instead  of  desolating,  refreshed  the  earth 
of  her  mind. 

"  I  have  thought  more  of  my  own  gratifica 
tion  than  of  his,"  she  began  to  say  within  her 
self.  "  His  tastes  differ  in  many  things  from 
mine.  What  I  enjoy  may  be  irksome  to  him. 
If  I  insist  upon  having  my  own  enjoyments, 
regardless  of  how  they  may  affect  him,  must 
not  a  degree  of  separation  take  place  ?  Can 
he  love  me  as  much  as  before — will  I  love  him 
as  much  as  before — if  I  exact  what  he  cannot 
give  willingly?  And  if  our  love  grow  less, 


370  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

what  is  there  in  all  the  world  to  compensate 
for  its  decline?  Losing  that,  we  lose  all.  Take 
away  that  light,  and  all  else  will  lie  in  shadow. 
Disturb  that  harmony,  and  every  chord  of  life 
is  out  of  tune." 

So  she  thought,  gaining  a  clearer  sight  and 
firmer  will  to  act  in  the  line  of  self-rejection 
whenever  self  interposed  to  hinder  love.  As 
the  hours  went  by  and  the  time  drew  near 
when  her  husband  would  return,  a  dead  weight 
began  to  settle  down  upon  Margy's  heart.  They 
had  parted  in  anger.  For  the  first  time  the 
lightning  of  a  summer  storm  had  flashed  in 
their  sky.  There  had  been  a  quick  descent  of 
the  tempest,  hurting  and  blinding  them.  How 
much  of  wreck  and  ruin  had  been  wrought  in 
that  brief  war  of  inner  elements  it  was  yet  im 
possible  to  know. 

At  last  the  time  of  return  was  at  hand.  A 
few  minutes  beyond  the  hour,  and  a  vague 
fear  began  creeping  into  the  soul  of  Margy. 
Shadowy  forms  of  evil  seemed  hovering  around 
her,  the  weight  on  her  bosom  grew  more  op 
pressive,  her  heart  labored  so  heavily  that  its 
motions  were  painful. 

Suspense  was  not  very  long.     She  heard  the 


LOVE,  A    GIVER.  3/1 

door  open,  and  the  music  of  a  well-known  step 
in  the  hall.  Restraint  became  impossible :  her 
temperament  was  too  ardent  for  repression  in 
moments  of  deep  feeling.  Springing  down  the 
stairs,  Margy  had  her  arms  about  her  husband's 
neck  ere  he  had  time  to  put  his  thoughts  in 
order,  and  was  crying  on  his  bosom.  The 
fervent  kisses  laid  as  peace-offerings  on  her 
lips  were  sweeter  to  her  taste  than  honey  or 
the  honeycomb. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  ?"  she  asked,  in  the 
calmness  of  spirit  that  ensued.  "I  am  very 
weak  sometimes,  and  feeling  is  so  strong." 

"  If  there  had  been  no  provocation  to  feel 
ing,"  Williston  answered,  frankly,  "  it  would 
never  have  broken  the  bands  of  restraint.  The 
fault  was  mine,  not  yours.  It  was  selfish  in 
me,  and  you  said  only  the  truth,  but  the  truth  is 
sometimes  the  most  unpleasant  thing  we  can 
hear.  It  sounded  very  harsh  in  my  ears.  I  felt 
angry,  and  rejected  it.  Not  so  now.  I  have 
seen  myself  as  in  a  mirror." 

Margy  laid  her  fingers  on  his  mouth,  and  then 
they  were  silent.  After  a  few  moments,  she 
said,  gently, 

"We  are  human,  and,  of  consequence,  weak 


3/2  LOVE,  A    GIVER. 

and  selfish  by  nature.  Let  Love  teach  us  a  bet 
ter  law  than  Nature  has  written  on  our  hearts. 
Then  we  shall  draw  nearer  and  nearer  together, 
and  the  pulses  of  our  lives,  that  sometimes  beat 
unevenly,  take  the  same  sweet  measure." 

And  it  was  so.     But  not  at  once,  nor  until 
after  many  seasons  of  mutual  self-repression. 


XXIV. 
FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD. 

[HE'S  a  little  fool !"  was  the  impatient 
exclamation  of  Cousin  Flora. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said 
Flora's  father.  "  John  is  a  fine  young  man,  and 
if  Kate  loves  him — " 

"  Loves  him!     Pshaw!" 

And  Flora  tossed  her  head  and  curled  her 
pretty  lip.  "Who  is  he,  and  what  is  he? 
Just  a  poor  clerk,  and  nothing  else.  It's  a  dis 
grace  to  us  all !  And  she  might  have  had 
Harry  Layard  or  Grant  Armon.  They  would 
have  given  their  eyes  for  her." 

"John  Lyon's  father  was  an  honest,  true 
man,"  replied  Mr.  Perkins,  "  and  his  son  has 
so  far  led  an  upright,  blameless  life.  He  is  not 
fast  like  Harry  Layard,  nor  an  idler  like  Grant 
Armon.  In  my  view  he  is  worth  a  dozen  of 
them.  Kate's  a  sensible  girl,  and  if  she  mar- 

32  373 


374  FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD. 

ries  John  Lyon  for  love,  her  chances  of  happi 
ness  will  be  a  thousandfold  better  than  if  she 
married  either  of  the  young  men  to  gain  posi 
tion,  for  as  to  loving  them,  that  is  out  of  the 
question." 

"  Love  !"  There  was  a  tone  of  contempt  in 
Flora's  voice.  "  All  very  well  in  poetry  and 
novels,  but  she  can't  live  on  love  alone.  A 
poor  clerk  for  a  husband  !  Oh  dear  !  To  pinch 
and  screw,  and  count  every  penny,  to  be  shut 
up  in  a  mean  little  house,  to  be  cut  by  your 
friends  and  left  out  of  society,  and  all  for  love ! 
Ugh  !"  And  the  young  lady  shivered. 

Mr.  Perkins  did  not  argue  the  point  with  his 
daughter.  He  knew  that  it  would  be  of  no 
avail.  A  false  social  sentiment  had  perverted 
her  feelings  and  lowered  her  views  of  marriage. 
But  he  was  glad  in  his  heart  that  his  lovely 
niece  had  accepted  the  hand  of  John  Lyon. 

Two  weddings  took  place  a  year  afterward, 
one  a  brilliant  sensational  affair,  fully  reported 
in  the  newspapers,  the  other  making  not  a 
ripple  on  the  surface  of  society. 

Harry  Layard,  who  had  been  refused  by- 
Kate  because  the  pure-minded,  true-hearted 
girl  could  not  love  him,  could  not  trust  him 


FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD.  375 

with  her  happiness,  offered  himself  to  Flora 
and  was  accepted.  Mr.  Perkins  yielded  a  re 
luctant  consent,  and  gave  away  the  hand  of  his 
daughter  with  many  painful  misgivings.  Theirs 
was  the  brilliant  wedding,  and  the  quiet,  unos 
tentatious,  sweet  home  ceremonial,  of  which 
society  took  no  note,  that  of  John  Lyon  and 
Kate. 

Three  years  afterward  Mr.  Perkins  died, 
leaving  a  bankrupt  estate.  His  son-in-law  had 
by  this  time  got  well  through  the  moderate  for 
tune  left  him  by  his  father.  Only  a  few  months 
before  this  event  he  had  given  up  his  elegant 
house  for  lack  of  means  to  support  the  estab 
lishment,  and  Flora  had  gone  back  to  her  fa 
ther's  house  disappointed  and  humiliated.  Long 
before  this  had  come  the  sad  discovery  that  her 
husband  possessed  few  qualities  that  she  could 
respect  or  admire.  He  was  selfish  and  self- 
indulgent.  His  moral  tone  was  low.  He  had 
no  worthy  aims  in  life.  He  was  fashionably 
indifferent  to  her,  and  gayly  attentive  to  other 
ladies.  This  she  had  thought  very  fine  and 
Frenchy  in  the  beginning,  and  had  indulged  in 
little  flirtations  of  her  own  that  were  very  excit 
ing  and  enjoyable  in  their  way.  But  they  led 


3/6  FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD, 

to  light  talk,  and  scandals  associated  with  her 
name,  which  came  near  involving  her  husband 
in  a  quarrel  with  a  "  man-about-town."  Flora 
was  innocent,  but  the  affair  left  a  blemish  on  her 
good  name.  Society  is  quick  to  credit  an  evil 
report  against  one  of  its  members,  for  Society 
knows  but  too  well  how  bad  the  heart  is. 

On  the  very  day  that  Harry  Layard,  the  fash 
ionable  spendthrift,  gave  up  his  fine  house  and 
became  a  poor  dependent  on  his  father-in-law, 
John  Lyon,  now  partner  in  the  well-established 
mercantile  firm  where  he  had  served  faithfully 
as  clerk,  took  his  happy  wife  and  child  into  a 
pleasant  home  bought  with  careful  savings. 
Over  this  home  Peace  spread  her  wings,  and  in 
it  Contentment  had  her  dwelling-place.  Love, 
regarded  almost  as  a  myth  in  certain  circles, 
was  a  beautiful  personation  here,  sweet  and 
pure.  The  husband  was  still  the  lover,  and  the 
wife  as  tender  and  responsive  as  when  the  kiss 
of  betrothal  touched  her  fervent  lips. 

A  year  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Perkins,  Mr. 
Layard,  for  some  mean  service  to  a  rising  poli 
tician,  got  a  consul's  appointment  in  a  South 
American  port,  and  took  his  broken-spirited 
young  wife  away  from  the  scenes  of  her  fash- 


"THEY  MADE  A  PICTURE  OF  CONTENTMENT.' 


Page  317. 


FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD. 

ionable  follies  and  bitter  disappointments.  She 
had  never  noticed  Kate  after  her  marriage  with 
the  poor  young  clerk,  and  the  cousins  had  be 
come  as  strangers  to  each  other. 

A  day  was  going  out  in  chill  December.  The 
wind  was  gusty  and  cold,  roaring  down  chim 
neys,  whistling  through  bare  tree-tops  and 
moaning  about  the  corners  of  houses.  A  sense 
of  comfort  had  all  who  sat  by  ruddy  fires  and 
felt  the  warmth  and  protection  of  homes. 

In  one  home,  by  an  open  grate,  in  a  hand 
somely-furnished  room,  was  a  young  mother 
with  a  child  in  her  arms.  They  made  a  picture 
of  contentment.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
back  from  the  windows,  and  as  the  twilight 
fell,  the  red  glow  from  burning  coals  made  the 
room  and  its  inmates  visible  upon  the  street. 
Many  who  passed  stopped  for  an  instant  to 
glance  at  this  living  picture  and  take  it  away  in 
their  memories,  ever  to  be  a  thing  of  beauty. 

Among  those  who  paused  to  look  at  the 
mother  and  her  child  was  a  young  woman 
whose  pale  sad  face  and  garments  too  thin  for 
the  chilly  air  were  in  marked  contrast  with  the 
comfort  on  which  she  gazed.  As  she  looked,  a 
man  passed  her  quickly,  sprang  up  the  steps  of 

32* 


FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD. 

the  house,  and  opening  the  door,  went  in.  At 
the  sound  of  his  key  in  the  lock  she  saw  the 
face  of  the  woman  light  up  with  sudden  joy, 
and  a  moment  afterward  a  manly  form  bent 
over  her  and  a  kiss  warm  as  any  lover's  was 
laid  upon  her  lips. 

Who  was  the  poor,  lonely  one  in  the  street, 
and  who  the  happy  one  within?  They  were 
the  cousins  —  one  a  widow,  homeless  in  the 
city  of  her  girlish  pride  and  social  triumph ; 
homeless,  and  well-nigh  heartbroken ;  landed 
only  a  few  hours  before  from  the  ship  that 
brought  for  burial  to  his  native  land  the  dead 
body  of  her  husband ;  the  other  crowned  with 
motherhood,  and  drinking  from  the  cup  of  life 
its  richest  nectar. 

A  hand  was  lifted  to  the  curtain  while  yet  the 
fascinated  gaze  of  Flora  rested  on  the  picture, 
and  in  another  instant  it  was  shut  from  her  view. 

A  cry  of  pain  rose  suddenly  on  the  air.  It 
penetrated  the  room. 

"  Hark  !  what  was  that  ?" 

The  color  went  out  of  Mrs.  Lyon's  face.  A 
woman's  low  cry  in  strangely  familiar  tones 
reached  her  ears  and  went  with  an  electric 
quiver  of  pain  to  her  heart. 


FIVE    YEARS  AFTERWARD.  3/9 

She  drew  back  the  curtain,  and  saw  in  the 
fading  light  a  woman's  form  on  the  pavement. 
The  instinct  of  humanity  was  quick  in  the  heart 
of  John  Lyon  and  his  wife.  They  did  not  stop 
for  doubt  or  question — did  not  wait  for  some 
other  good  Samaritan  to  go  to  the  rescue — but 
took  the  unconscious  wanderer  in. 

It  was  just  five  years  since  Cousin  Flora 
turned  her  back  on  Kate,  and  this  was  their 
next  meeting !  Five  years  of  a  true  and  of  a 
false  marriage,  and  here  was  the  issue  thereof, 
here  the  fruitage !  Ponder  the  lesson  well, 
young  maiden !  If  you  would  be  happy  in 
'  marriage,  look  to  personal  qualities  alone.  If 
the  man  is  not  pure  and  excellent,  manly  and 
self-reliant,  you  run  a  fearful  risk  in  casting 
your  lot  with  him.  The  chances  of  happiness 
are  all  against  you.  It  is  the  man  you  marry, 
not  his  position,  nor  his  family  name,  nor  his 
wealth.  It  is  the  man  of  evil  or  good  character 
to  whom  you  are  conjoined  in  the  closest  of  all 
imaginable  intimacies,  and  with  whom  you  must 
dwell  in  love  or  in  dislike  and  disgust.  He  will 
lift  you  into  honor  and  safety,  or  drag  you  down 
into  wretched  humiliation  and  untold  sufferings. 

Ay,  ponder  the  lesson  well ! 


XXV. 

WHAT  WILL    THE   WORLD  SAY? 

|OT  Grace  Allen,  surely?"  said  Wilson 
Maynard,  in  tones  of  disappointment 
and  surprise. 

"  Yes,  Grace  Allen,"  replied  his  friend. 

"  A  milliner !  There  must  be  some  mistake. 
She  is  too  sweet,  too  intelligent,  too  accom 
plished  a  girl  for  that !  I  cannot  believe  it." 

"Just  as  you  please,  Wilson.  But  if  you 
have  any  particular  interest  in  knowing,  and' 
will  just  step  down  with  me  to-morrow  morning 
to  Mrs.  Millinett's,  you  can  see  her  in  all  the 
glory  of  principal  workwoman  to  that  very  use 
ful  individual." 

"Well,  it's  a  shame!" 

" What's  a  shame?" 

"  Why,  that  a  girl  like  Grace — for  that  she  is 
no  common  girl  a  single  hour  spent  in  her  com- 

380 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  381 

pany  has  convinced  me — should  have  to  stoop 
so  low." 

"  Then,  like  a  true  knight,  you  should  fly  at 
once  to  her  relief,  and  elevate  her  to  what  you 
think  her  true  position  in  society." 

"That  I  cannot  do." 

"Why?     Do  you  not  think  her  worthy?" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  should  think  her  in  every 
way  worthy,  from  the  little  I  have  seen  of  her, 
though  if  I  were  to  think  seriously  of  marriage, 
I  should  wish  to  see  a  great  deal  more  of  her. 
But  I  find  that  there  is  one  positive  objection." 

"Indeed!     What  is  that?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?     She  is  a  milliner  !" 

•''Well,  what  difference  does  that  make?" 

"What  difference?  How  strangely  you 
talk !" 

"  I  am  sure,  Wilson,  that  I  am  unable  to  see 
the  great  difference  that  it  would  make.  For 
my  part,  it  seems  to  me  a  recommendation." 

"A  recommendation!  Really,  I  am  unable 
to  see  what  you  are  driving  at." 

"  I  will  try  and  enlighten  you.  The  father  of 
Grace  Allen,,  though  not  rich,  was  one  of  those 
foolish  men  whose  affection  for  their  children 
shows  itself  in  a  disposition  to  relieve  them  from 


382  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD  SAY? 

all  kinds  of  care  and  toil.  A  very  industrious 
man  himself,  he  was  able  to  provide  for  his  fam 
ily  sufficiently  well  to  take  away  the  necessity 
of  labor,  even  in  household  affairs,  from  his 
daughter.  She  was  provided  with  the  best 
teachers,  and  no  effort  was  spared  to  render 
her  truly  accomplished,  so  far  as  the  storing  up 
of  the  various  branches  of  knowledge  was  con 
cerned.  Possessing,  naturally,  a  good  mind, 
none  of  these  advantages  were  lost  upon  Grace, 
and  her  father  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
spring  up  to  womanhood  an  honor  to  himself 
and  the  pride  of  the  social  circle  in  which  she 
moved.  But  in  one  of  those  mysterious  dispen 
sations  of  Providence  that  meet  us  at  every 
turn  in  life,  the  father  of  Grace  was  removecf 
from  this  world.  Having  lived  fully  up  to  his 
income,  there  was  nothing  left  for  his  wife  and 
fondly-loved  child. 

''  Now  came  the  trial  that  was  to  prove  her. 
Mrs.  Allen  was  advanced  in  years,  and  in  feeble 
health.  Grace  was  in  the  freshness  and  vigor 
of  early  womanhood.  Upon  which  do  you 
think  should  have  fallen  the  burden  of  support 
ing  the  other?  It  did  not  take  Grace  long"  to 

o  o 

answer  this  question.     She  entered  a  milliner's 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  383 

work-room,  and  has  ever  since  supported  her 
mother." 

"  That  was  truly  noble  !"  ejaculated  the  young 
man,  while  a  glow  of  admiration  lit  up  his  coun 
tenance.  "But" — and  the  glow  faded — "why 
did  she  choose  such  an  occupation?  Surely, 
with  her  education,  she  might  have  found  em 
ployment  at  something  far  more  respectable." 

"  I  am  not  able  to  see,  Wilson,  why  a  milliner 
is  less  respectable  than — what  shall  I  say? — a 
music  or  French  teacher." 

"I  can,  then." 

"  Enlighten  me,  if  you  please." 

"  Why — why — why  you  see,  a  milliner  is  not 
half  so  respectable.  Anybody  can  see  that." 

"Then,  as  I  cannot  see  it,  of  course  I  am  no 
body,"  the  friend  said,  laughing. 

"  But  I  am  sure,"  returned  Maynard,  with  a 
serious  look  and  tone,  "  the  employment  is  not 
esteemed  respectable.  You  know  that,  at 
least." 

"  I  know  so,  because  it  is  plainly  apparent, 
Wilson,  that  you  do  not  think  it  respectable, 
and  it  is  probable  that  there  are  others  who 
think  as  you  do;  but  you  must  excuse  me  when 
I  say  that  the  employment  in  which  Grace  is  so 


384  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

honorably  engaged  is  not  thus  esteemed  by  the 
thinking  and  sensible  portion  of  the  community 
— those  who  can  look  beyond  the  surface,  and, 
seeing,  prize  true  worth  wherever  it  is  found. 
Surely,  were  Grace  to  fold  her  hands  in  idle 
ness,  and  suffer  her  mother  to  toil  for  her,  when 
she  is  far  more  able  to  take  care  of  her  mother, 
you  would  not  think  her  more  respectable  ?" 

"  Oh  no.  But  then,  as  I  said  before,  there  is 
a  choice  of  employments,  and  in  that  choice  a 
person  like  Grace  Allen  should  discriminate 
more  wisely  than  she  has  done." 

"  As  to  that,  Wilson,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  learn,  in  her  choice  of  employment  she 
discriminated  with  great  wisdom.  She  has 
naturally  a  taste  for  such  employments  as  the 
one  in  which  she  is  now  engaged.  For  years 
before  her  father's  death,  from  choice  she  made 
her  own  and  her  mother's  bonnets,  and  I  have 
heard  my  sisters  say  that  none  of  their  friends 
wore  neater  bonnets  than  Grace.  All  honest 
employments  being  in  her  eyes,  as  in  the  eyes 
of  every  sensible  person — you  must  excuse  me, 
Wilson — respectable,  she  chose  that  for  which 
she  had  -naturally  the  greatest  predilection. 
The  consequence  has  been  that,  from  taking  an 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD  SAY?  385 

interest  and  feeling  a  pleasure  in  her  occupation, 
she  has  come  to  be  Mrs.  Millinett's  most  valu 
able  assistant.  Indeed,  that  individual's  large 
custom  mainly  depends  upon  the  tasteful  air 
that  everything  has  which  comes  from  her  es 
tablishment,  and  well  she  knows  whom  to  credit 
for  this.  The  consequence  is  that  the  compen 
sation  received  by  Grace  is  far  above  what  per 
sons  in  her  capacity  ordinarily  receive,  and  much 
more  than  she  could  hope  to  obtain  at  any  other 
employment.  And  thus  is  she  enabled  to  pro 
vide  for  her  mother  every  desired  comfort." 

"Still,  she  is  but  a  milliner,"  the  young  man 
responded,  musingly. 

"  I  cannot  see  what  great  difference  that  can 
make,  Wilson,"  his  friend  replied.  "  It  certainly 
does  not  take  away,  in  the  slightest  degree,  from 
the  real  worth  of  her  character.  Her  ends  of 
life,  which  really  constitute  the  true  quality  of 
mind,  remain  the  same.  As  your  wife,  or  the 
wife  of  any  one,  she  cannot  be  considered  in 
the  smallest  iota  less  worthy  for  having  filled 
the  station  she  now  does.  Indeed,  as  I  before 
remarked,  she  is  far  more  worthy  than  she  was 
formerly.  Because  the  selection,  from  principle, 
of  her  present  employment,  which  she  must 

33  Z 


386  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

have  known  was  not  looked  upon  by  some 
prejudiced  individuals  as  *  respectable,'  has 
strengthened  her  character  and  given  her  a 
degree  of  independence  where  right  and  prin 
ciple  are  concerned,  that  must  make  her  far 
better  qualified  to  fill  the  position  of  a  wife." 

"  That  may  all  be  so.     But—" 

"  But  what,  Wilson  ?" 

"  Why,  what  will  the  world  say  if  I  were  to 
marry  a  milliner?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  the  world  has  anything  to 
do  in  the  matter,"  the  friend  replied.  "It  is 
your  business,  not  that  of  other  people." 

"  Still,  they  will  meddle  with  it." 

"  Perhaps  they  will.     But  what  of  that  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  of  it.  It  would  be  my  wife 
that  they  talked  about  and  sneered  at,  and  I 
cannot  bear  that  my  wife  should  be  alluded  to 
in  any  such  a  way.  And  besides,  it  would 
exclude  her  from  good  society." 

"  Not  good  society,  Wilson." 

u  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  any  persons  who  would  exclude 
Grace  Allen  from  their  association  because  she 
had  m  been  a  milliner  would  not  be  entitled  to 
the  name  of  good  society.  They  might  be  '  ex- 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  387 

clusives,'  '  elite  '  or  '  fashionables/  or  anything 
else  you  might  choose  to  call  them,  but  the 
title  of  'good,'  as  applied  to  them,  would  be 
altogether  out  of  place." 

"  It  wouldn't  do  to  let  the  world  hear  you  talk 
in  that  way." 

"  I  never  conceal  my  sentiments,  and  never 
intend  to  conceal  them.  And  what  is  more,  my 
friend,  I  do  not  feel  that  there  is  the  slightest 
necessity  for  doing  so.  The  world  is  not  so 
blind  to  true  merit,  nor  so  wonderfully  exclusive, 
as  you  seem  inclined  to  think.  The  general 
opinion  is  always  in  favor  of  real  worth,  and  is 
ever  ready  to  elevate  that  worth  to  its  true 
position.  And  you  may  rest  assured  that  if 
you  neglect  to  pluck  this  beautiful  and  fragrant 
flower  now  blooming  unseen  and  unknown, 
there  will  be  found  some  one  ere  long  who 
will  find  it  and  wear  it  upon  his  bosom,  the  ad 
miration  even  of  the  very  world  from  whose 
imaginary  sneer  you  shrink  so  sensitively." 

"  Well,  let  him  risk  it  that  chooses.  I  am  un 
willing.  Still,  she  is  a  charming  girl.  The  hour 
that  I  spent  in  her  company  last  evening — the 
first  time,  you  know,  that  I  met  her — was  the 
pleasantest  hour  that  I  have  passed  for  a  long 


388  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

time.  Intelligent,  easy  and  graceful  in  her 
manners,  a  close  and  rational  observer,  com 
bined  with  high  personal  attractions,  she  is  one 
of  the  most  lovely  women  that  I  have  ever  met. 
I  have  never  seen  one  whom  I  would  choose  for 
a  companion  before  her." 

"You  have  thought  of  removing  to  the  South/' 
Maynard's  friend  said.  "  Her  origin,  or  rather 
her  present  employment,  wtfuld  not  be  known 
there." 

''True — not  at  first.  But  then  I  should  live 
in  daily  fear  of  something  occurring  to  make  it 
known.  No,  no.  I  had  better  run  no  risks." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  the  friend  said,  in  a  changed 
tone,  for  he  began  to  feel  that  Maynard  was 
really  unworthy  of  Grace,  and  that  in  endeav 
oring  to  remove  the  difficulties  that  intervened 
he  was  doing  wrong. 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  little  strange,"  Wilson 
Maynard  remarked,  after  a  few  moments'  si 
lence,  "  that  Mrs.  Carpenter  would  introduce 
her  into  company  at  her  house.  It  will  not  only 
injure  her  standing  when  the  fact  becomes  gen 
erally  known,  but  it  throws  young  men  who  visit 
there  into  the  danger  of  forming  an  unpleasant, 
and  perhaps  a  very  undesirable,  association. 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  389 

Suppose,  now,  that  I  had  permitted  myself,  after 
meeting  her  for  a  few  times,  to  show  her  marked 
attentions.  The  result  would  have  been  un 
pleasant  to  both  of  us  so  soon  as  I  came  to 
know  the  truth." 

"  Of  course,  for  no  one  thinks  of  conceal 
ing  the  occupation  in  which  she  is  engaged. 
Grace  herself  would  not  have  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  to  have  given  you  that  information.  In 
deed,  she  has  told  me  that  she  sometimes  uses 
the  fact  that  she  is  a  milliner  as  a  kind  of  touch 
stone  to  try  the  sincerity  of  professed  good- 
feeling  from  certain  quarters.  It  is  surprising, 
she  has  said  to  me,  how  quickly  the  manner  of 
some  changes  toward  her  when  it  becomes 
known.  But  nothing  of  this  moves  her." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  her  being  an  excellent 
girl.  I  only  pity  the  misfortune  of  her  lot." 

"  By  her  it  is  esteemed  a  good  fortune.  She 
feels  that  it  protects  her  from  those  who  cannot 
discriminate  between  the  real  and  the  fictitious, 
and  she  knows  that,  if  ever  sought  by  a  man  of 
real  intelligence  and  truth  of  character,  it  will 
be  because  he  finds  in  her  a  likeness  of  his  own 
mind — that  he  will  take  her  for  herself.  And 
then  she  -knows  that  she  will  be  happy." 

33* 


390  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

"  May  all  the  good  fortune  attend  her  that 
she  desires  is  my  fervent  wish,"  said  Maynard, 
with  something  of  regret  in  his  tones.  "The 
flower  of  the  wilderness  must  bloom  on  another 
bosom  than  mine.  I  dare  not  risk  the  certain 
consequences." 

His  friend  urged  him  no  farther.  ,  He  felt 
that  it  would  be  wrong  to  do  so — that,  as  has 
just  been  said,  Wilson  Maynard  was  unworthy 
of  Grace  Allen. 

About  the  same  time  that  this  conversation 
was  in  progress,  a  young  physician  universally 
esteemed  in  the  community  for  his  superior  in 
telligence  and  high-toned  principles  sat  in  one 
'of  the  richly-furnished  parlors  of  Mrs.  Carpen 
ter,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  that 
lady.  As  to  this  conversation,  we  will  com 
mence  at  the  beginning  and  go  regularly 
through  with  it,  that  the  reader  may  perceive 
its  full  import. 

"  Who  is  that  young  lady  whom  I  have  met 
several  times  at  your  house,  Mrs.  Carpenter?" 
asked  Doctor  Norton,  after  he  had  been  seated 
a  few  moments  with  the  lady  he  addressed. 

"Which  one  do  you  mean,  doctor?" 

"  Why,  the  most  beautiful,  interesting  and  in- 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  39! 

telligent  woman  that  was  in  these  rooms  last 
evening".  Can  you  designate  her  by  that  de 
scription  ?" 

"  I  think  I  can.  But  that  will  depend  upon 
how  nearly  alike  we  estimate  character  and  per 
sonal  attractions." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  think  there  is  but  little 
danger  of  going  wrong.  So  speak  out,  if  you 
please,  madam." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  young  lady  dressed  in 
white  who  sang  and  played,  toward  the  close 
of  the  evening,  with  so  much  sweetness  and 
taste?" 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Her  name,  doctor,  is  Grace  Allen." 

"  Grace  !  She  is  truly  named,  that  is  certain. 
And  now,  who  or  what  is  she  ?" 

"  What  she  is  you  have  already  said — a  beau- 
.•iful,  intelligent  and  interesting  woman." 

"Exactly.  That  is  settled.  Now,  who  is 
she  ?" 

"  A  poor  girl  who  supports  an  aged  mother 
in  ill  health  with  her  needle.  In  plain  terms,  a 
milliner's  chief  workwoman." 

"  Surely  you  jest,  Mrs.  Carpenter !" 

"  You  know  me  better,  doctor," 


392  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

"  I  do.  But  your  information  astonishes  me. 
That  woman,  so  superior  in  every  way,  a  mil 
liner !  By  what  ill  fortune  has  shebeen  com 
pelled  to  resort  to  such  a  means  of  livelihood  ?" 

"  By  the  death  of  a  father  who  lavished  every 
thing  upon  his  child  while  living,  and  left  her 
nothing  when  he  died." 

"Have  you  known  her  long?" 

"  Ever  since  she  was  a  child.  And  the  more 
I  see  of  her,  and  the  longer  I  know  her,  the 
more  I  esteem  her.  Humble  as  her  sphere  in 
life  is,  I  know  few,  if  any,  whom  I  consider  her 
equal." 

"Just  my  opinion,  formed  from  half  an  hour's 
conversation  with  and  an  hour's  observation  of 
her,"  Doctor  Norton  said.  Then,  after  musing 
a  few  moments,  he  resumed  : 

"  I  believe  I  may  speak  out  my  mind  plainly 
to  you  as  a  friend,  Mrs.  Carpenter?" 

"  Certainly,  doctor." 

"Then,  is  this  young  lady — this  Grace  Allen 
— engaged  ?" 

"  I  believe  not,  doctor.  But  why  do  you  ask  ? 
You  certainly  cannot  think  of  marrying  a  mil 
liner?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.     I  think  of  marrying  an 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  393 

intelligent,  virtuous  and  accomplished  woman, 
if  I  can  find  one  who  comes  up  to  my  ideas. 
And  from  the  little  I  have  seen  and  heard  of 
Miss  Allen,  I  think  she  is  just  the  woman  I  am 
in  search  of.  Of  course  I  wish  to  see  more  of 
hen  As  to  her  being  a  milliner,  I  have  no  in 
terest  in  the  matter,  as  I  do  not  want  any  one 
in  that  capacity.  Will  she  make  a  good  wife  ? 
That  is  the  question.  If  so,  and  she  can  fancy 
me,  why  it  will  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  lay  off  the  milliner  and  put  on  the  wife." 

"But  what  will  people  say,  doctor?'* 

"They  will  say,  I  suppose,  that  I  have  a  very 
sweet  woman  for  a  wife.  What  else  can  they 
say  ?" 

"  Why,  they'll  say,  '  But  she  was  only  a  mil 
liner/  " 

"  Indeed !  Well,  suppose  they  do  ?  It  will 
be  very  easy  to  retort." 

"How?" 

"Why,  if  they  charge  her  with  having  been 
guilty  of  the  crime  of  making  bonnets,  she  can 
charge  upon  them  the  crime  of  wearing  them. 
Now,  pray,  which  is  the  greatest  crime  ?  If  it 
is  wrong  to  make  bonnets,  surely  it  is  wrong 
for  any  one  not  only  to  pay  another  for  making 


394  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

them,  but  to  wear  them  after  they  are  made  ! 
Is  not  that  sound  logic?" 

"  It  seems  so.  And  glad  I  am  to  find  that  my 
friend,  Doctor  Norton,  can  have  the  manliness 
and  independence  to  discriminate  thus  wisely. 
I  am  sure  he  will  find  in  Grace  Allen  a  woman 
not  only  to  love,  but  to  be  proud  of.  As  for 
myself,  I  number  her  among  my  choicest  friends, 
and  though  I  can  in  but  few  instances  prevail 
on  her  to  be  present  here  when  I  have  company, 
I  always  esteem  her  on  such  occasions  to  be 
the  chief  attraction.  Sometimes  young  men 
and  young  women  have  been  present  who  did 
not  treat  her  with  the  right  kind  of  considera 
tion,  because  they  felt  themselves  above  persons 
in  her  condition.  Such,  no  matter  to  what  fam 
ilies  they  belong,  I  never  invite  again  to  my 
house.  I  consider  them  to  be  unfit  companions 
for  myself  or  my  friends.  Their  false  ideas  of 
life,  their  weak,  vain,  perverted  notions,  I  wish 
not  intruded  upon  her.  Let  them  go  to  their 


own." 


"  Yes,  let  them  go  to  their  own,"  Doctor  Nor 
ton  responded,  with  warmth.  "  If  not  asking 
too  much  of  a  favor  of  you,  shall  I  be  able  to 
see  Miss  Allen  here  soon  again  ?" 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  395 

"  I  will  invite  her  here  on  any  evening  that 
will  be  agreeable  to  you." 

"  Say  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Very  well.     Let  it  be  to-morrow  evening." 

After  Wilson  Maynard  had  parted  from  his 
friend  the  image  of  Grace  still  remained  pic 
tured  in  his  imagination,  and  he  felt  drawn 
toward  her  despite  what  he  was  pleased  to  call 
his  better  judgment.  But  he  resisted  this  in 
clination,  and  reasoned  against  the  absurdity  of 
a  man  of  his  standing  (a  young  merchant  with 
a  borrowed  capital  of  four  thousand  dollars  and 
a  business  credit  of  five  times  that  amount) 
lowering  himself  so  much  as  to  marry  a  mil 
liner  ! 

"  Good-morning,  Wilson,"  his  friend  said  to 
him,  a  few  weeks  afterward.  "  Have  you  made 
up  your  mind  to  marry  that  milliner  yet?" 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,  if  you  please.  If  I  did 
feel  a  little  inclination  toward  that  girl  before  I 
knew  what  she  was,  I  can  assure  you  that  I  am 
perfectly  cured  now." 

"  It's  as  well,  perhaps,"  was  the  reply. 

"But  I  have  found  one  who  is  just  the  thing," 
resumed  the  young  man. 

"  Indeed  !     And  who  is  she  ?" 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

"  Not  a  milliner's  girl,  I  can  promise  you." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not !  But  who  has  so  fully 
met  your  ideas  ?" 

"  Her  name  is  Clarissa  Howell.  Do  you 
know  her?" 

"  Yes,  very  well." 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"  That  she  is  a  very  good  sort  of  a  girl — 
amiable,  and  all  that." 

"  You  speak  indifferently." 

"Do  I?" 

"  Yes.  And  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
mean  by  it." 

"  Oh,  nothing !  Only  that  I  never  happened 
to  see  anything  particularly  interesting  about 
Miss  Howell.  Still,  I  have  always  found  her  a 
pleasant  girl,  and  have  passed  many  agreeable 
hours  in  her  company.  But  I  think  that  her 
education  is  defective,  as  are  also  her  views  of 
society." 

"How  so?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  she  has  not  been  raised  by 
her  parents  to  do  anything  except  go  to  school. 
Consequently,  she  might  do  well  enough  for  a 
man  to  dress  up  and  place  in  his  parlor  by  way 
of  ornament,  but  certainly  she  is  not  fit  to 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

govern  a  household,  or  to  manage  the  econom 
ical  affairs  of  a  family." 

"  I  don't  see  that  as  any  great  objection." 

"You  don't?" 

"  No.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  a  slave  of  my 
wife." 

"Of  course  not.  But  you  certainly  expect 
your  wife  not  only  to  take  charge  of  your  do 
mestic  concerns,  but  to  take  pleasure  therein." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  am  no  friend  to 
making  slaves  of  women.  Certainly,  I  do  not 
expect  my  wife  to  live  in  the  kitchen." 

"  Nor  does  any  man  of  right  feeling.  Still, 
there  are  duties  connected  with  a  wife's  position 
that  require  her  to  know  a  good  deal  about  the 
practical  part  of  housekeeping.  An  ignorance 
of  how  to  perform  these  will  cause  a  derange 
ment  in  her  family  that  none  will  feel  to  be 
more  unpleasant  and  annoying  than  her  hus 
band." 

"  As  to  that,  I  am  sure  I  am  no  judge.  No 
doubt  Clarissa's  mother  has  taught  her  all  that 
is  necessary.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  she  has,  for  I 
have  heard  her  called  one  of  the  best  of  house 
keepers." 

"  You  must  judge  for  yourself,  of  course,  Wil- 

34 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

son,"  his  friend  replied.  "  But  one  thing  is 
certain:  Clarissa  Howell  is  neither  so  handsome 
nor  so  intelligent  as  Grace  Allen." 

"  That  may  be.  But  then  she  is  a  respectable 
girl,  and  moves  in  good  society." 

"  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  talk  in  that  way, 
Wilson,"  his  friend  said.  "The  inference  of 
course  is,  that  Grace  is  not  respectable  and  does 
not  move  in  good  society.  Now,  I  know  to  the 
contrary,  and  so  ought  you.  I  am  sure  you  met 
her  at  Mrs.  Carpenter's.  As  to  the  amount  of 
respectability  attached  to  industry  and  idleness, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  proportion  is  largely  in 
favor  of  the  former.  And  I  am  sure  that  if  you 
look  at  the  subject  with  an  unprejudiced  eye 
you  will  think  the  same." 

"  As  to  all  that,  I  don't  pretend  to  think  much 
about  it.  But  I  do  know  that  the  world — that 
is,  the  genteel  class — do  not  esteem  a  milliner, 
or  a  mantua-maker,  or  indeed  any  persons  who 
have  to  work  with  their  hands  for  a  livelihood, 
as  respectable.  They  are  all  classed  with  me 
chanics,  and  should  associate  together.  They 
are  well  enough  in  their  places,  and  useful,  but 
I  am  not  going  to  connect  myself  with  any  of 
them." 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  399 

"  And  yet  Mr.  Howell  was  a  saddler  before 
he  opened  the  store  he  now  keeps." 

"  If  he  was,  his  daughter  is  not  a  saddler,  nor 
a  seamstress,  and  I  am  thinking  about  her,  not 
her  father.  As  to  his  having  pursued  a  trade 
for  a  living,  that  is  a  fact  of  past  times.  He  is 
a  merchant  now,  and  Clarissa  is  the  daughter 
of  a  merchant !" 

"  That  is,  if  a  man  who  retails  groceries,  and 
has  to  spend  every  dollar  he  makes  in  the  sup 
port  of  four  or  five  idle,  expensive  daughters, 
may  be  called  a  merchant.  Don't  look  so  in 
dignant.  I  am  only  telling  you  the  truth  in 
homely  language." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  talk  on.  It  don't  make  any 
impression." 

"Then  there  will  be  no  use  in  my  talking," 
the  friend  responded,  and  so  the  subject  was 
waived. 

The  allusions  of  the  friend  were  pretty  true. 
Clarissa  was  about  as  lit  to  make  a  man  a  wife 
as  most  girls  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  She  was 
one  of  five  sisters  raised  in  idleness,  their  heads 
full  of  high  notions  and  contempt  of  everything 
vulgar.  She  dressed  well,  talked  pretty  well, 
although  there  was  no  great  deal  of  sense  in 


400  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

what  she  said,  sang  well,  danced  well  and  looked 
pretty  well.  Indeed,  she  was  just  the  kind  of  a 
girl  to  captivate  such  a  man  as  Wilson  May- 
nard.  And  she  did  make  a  conquest  of  him — 
not  by  accident,  but  from  design,  for  she  made 
herself  particularly  interesting  to  him.  She 
studied  his  tastes  and  predilections,  and  modi 
fied  her  actions  and  the  expression  of  her  opin 
ions  precisely  to  suit  his  notions.  The  business 
of  her  life  was  to  get  married,  and  everything 
she  did  looked  to  that  end. 

In  due  time  Maynard  engaged  himself  to  her, 
and  eventually  they  were  married. 

Three  days  after  that  event  took  place,  when 
he  was  again  settling  down  to  business,  his  friend, 
before  introduced,  came  into  his  store  to  pass  a 
word  or  two.  While  sitting  and  conversing, 
Maynard,  who  held  a  newspaper  in  his  hand, 
let  his  eye  fall  accidentally  on  a  portion  of  the 
sheet. 

"  Ha  !  what  is  this  ?"  he  said,  suddenly. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  his  friend. 

"  '  Married,  on  Tuesday  evening  last,  Doctor 
James  Norton  to  Grace,  daughter  of  the  late 
William  Allen.'  " 

"  Indeed !"  cried    the    friend,    in    a   delighted 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  40! 

tone,  striking  his  hands  together  under  the  im 
pulse  of  an  instantaneous  emotion  of  pleasure. 
"  Really,  I  am  delighted!" 

"  But  that  don't  mean,  certainly,  Grace  Allen 
the  milliner  girl  ?" 

"  Yes  it  does,  though !  Her  father's  name 
was  William." 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,  surely,"  per 
sisted  Maynard. 

-Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  don't  believe  a  man  of  Doctor 
Norton's  standing  would  stoop  so  low." 

"You  can  think  of  that  as  you  please,  Wil 
son,  but  I  can  tell  you  one  thing:  I  have  met 
Doctor  Norton  several  times  of  late  at  Mrs. 
Carpenter's,  and  Grace  was  there  every  time, 
and  what  is  more,  the  doctor  paid  her  marked 
attentions." 

"  Well,  if  it  is  so,  he  is  a  great  fool.  He 
will  never  be  able  {0- introduce  her  into  good 
society,  that's  certain." 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  of  that,  Wilson.  The 
doctor  can  introduce  her  where  he  pleases,  and 
what  is  more,  her  own  real  worth  of  character 
will  be  her  passport." 

And  now  let  us  hear  what  the  world  will  say 

34  *  2  A 


4O2  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

about  these  two  events,  premising,  by  the  way, 
that  the  opinions  of  one  or  two  or  three  indi 
viduals  are  generally  set  down  as  the  opinion 
of  "  the  world." 

"  What  a  lovely  woman  Doctor  Norton's  wife 
is !"  remarked  the  lady  of  a  wealthy  and  "  re 
spectable"  citizen,  a  few  weeks  after  the  mar 
riage,  to  the  lady  of  another  wealthy  and  "  re 
spectable"  citizen. 

"  Indeed,  she  is  a  sweet  woman." 

"They  say,"  resumed  the  first  speaker,  "that 
she  was  one  of  Mrs.  Millinett's  workwomen 
when  the  doctor  married  her,  and  that  by  her 
industry  she  supported  her  aged  and  invalid 
mother." 

"So  I  have  heard." 

"I  think  the  doctor  deserves  credit  for  his 
discrimination.  A  man  of  less  observation 
and  good  sense  would  never  have  discovered 
her." 

"  No,  that  is  certain  !  Well,  she  is  a  sweet 
woman,  worthy  to  fill  any  station.  I,  for  one, 
feel  proud  of  her  acquaintance." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  was  the  sincere  response. 

"  And  so  Maynard  is  married !"  said  one  lady 
to  another,  about  the  same  time  that  the  last 


WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY?  403 

brief  conversation  occurred,  though  in  a  differ 
ent  circle  and  in  a  conventional  grade  below. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  and  a  pretty  bargain 
he  has  made  of  it !  He'd  a  great  deal  better 
have  married  a  woman  that  knows  how  to  do 
something — a  milliner  or  a  mantua-maker  for 
instance,  or  some  one  at  least  that  has  a  few 
ideas  above  mere  dress  and  show." 

"  So  I  should  think.  But  that's  the  way  with 
our  young  men  now-a-days.  They  must  have 
ladies  for  their  wives.  And  pretty  work  they 
make  of  it!  No  wonder  they  don't  get  along 
any  better  than  they  do." 

"  No,  indeed,  it  is  not.  Why,  those  Howell 
girls  are  no  more  fit  for  young  men's  wives 
than  they  are  for — for — I  don't  know  what !" 

"  No  matter ;  but  they'll  all  be  picked  off  by 
foolish  young  men  because  they  are  ladies — 
that  is,  are  above  working." 

Thus  the  world  will  talk.  And  if  we  study 
to  conciliate  its  good  opinion,  with  no  other  end 
in  view,  ten  chances  to  one  if  we  do  not  take  a 
false  step,  and  fail  to  secure  the  good  opinion 
we  have  been  seeking  into  the  bargain.  There 
is  a  more  general  common-sense  estimation  of 
things  in  all  classes  than  a  few  seem  willing  to 


404  WHAT   WILL    THE    WORLD   SAY? 

believe.  The  weak  ones  talk  and  give  out 
their  narrow  views  as  the  ruling  ones  in  the 
social  circles.  But  common  sense  and  com 
mon  honesty,  in  the  appreciation  of  character, 
are  far  more  general  than  some  profess  to 
believe. 


XXVI. 

WHEN  IT   WAS    OVER. 

|R.  FULTON  was  stunned  by  the  shock 
of  his  wife's  death.  Pie  had  not  ex 
pected  the  event,  and  was  not,  there 
fore,  in  any  way  prepared  for  it.  True,  Mrs. 
Fulton  had  been  in  feeble  health  for  some 
years,  and  for  the  past  twelve  or  eighteen 
months  her  fading  face  and  shadowy  form,  to 
all  but  her  husband,  had  been  suggestive  of 
that  last  time  which  comes  to  all.  To  him  she 
looked  pale  and  wasted,  but  he  had  grown  so 
familiar  with  this  aspect  that  its  significance 
failed.  Day  by  day  the  wasting  went  on,  the 
pallor  increased,  but  these  progressive  changes 
were  imperceptible  to  his  eyes.  Only  those 
who  saw  Mrs.  Fulton  at  intervals  of  weeks  or 
months  were  impressed  by  the  warning  signs. 
"  Hearty  as  a  buck."  This  language  gives 

405 


406  WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER. 

the  true  impression  of  Mr.  Fulton's  physical 
condition.  He  knew  nothing  of  aching  heads, 
of  weary  limbs,  of  nervous  exhaustion  and 
depression.  The  blood  that  leaped  along  his 
veins  was  full  of  richness  and  vitality.  Every 
nerve  was  in  health,  every  muscle  rounded. 
He  enjoyed  life.  Motion  was  a  pleasure.  Such 
men,  resting  in  the  consciousness  of  their  own 
mental  and  physical  states,  are  not  ready  sym 
pathizers  with  pain.  They  understand  but  little 
of  what  those  suffer  in  whom  vitality  is  low,  or 
the  mechanism  of  whose  bodies  are  defect  and 
weakness. 

Mr.  Fulton  was  not  what  the  world  calls 
a  selfish  man,  and  yet  he  was  too  self-absorbed 
to  make  a  true  and  tender  husband  to  the  pa 
tient,  loving  woman  whom  he  left  for  most  of 
the  time  in  weary  loneliness.  All  day  long  he 
was  absent  under  the  necessities  of  business. 
Could  he  not  give  his  evenings  to  the  wife  who 
had  numbered  the  hours  in  waiting  for  him  to 
come  home,  and  who  always  had  smiles  and 
lovelit  eyes  to  greet  him?  Not  often.  His 
life  was  too  full  to  be  repressed  to  the  sluggish 
quiet  of  an  invalid's  chamber.  It  made  him 
dull  and  stupid.  So  he  must  have  his  meetings 


WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER.  4-O/ 

with  friends  after  the  clay's  work  was  over,  his 
recreations,  his  social  contacts,  his  enjoyments. 
Without  these,  life  would  grow  stagnant  in  his 
veins.  It  was  hard  on  his  poor  wife,  he  knew, 
to  be  restricted  to  a  few  rooms — often  to  one — 
to  sit  lonely  at  home,  to  be  in  pain,  but  then  it 
was  a  necessity  out  of  his  reach.  If  he  could 
have  given  her  at  a  word  both  health  and  hap 
piness,  with  what  promptness  would  that  word 
have  been  spoken !  But  he  rarely  thought  of 
self-denial — of  the  great  pleasure  she  would 
receive  from  daily  acts  of  love,  scarce  manifest 
in  their  unobtrusiveness,  yet  falling  like  dew 
and  sunshine  upon  the  heart. 

And  so  it  went  on,  the  failing  one  never  dis 
turbing  him  with  complaint  or  murmur,  always 
welcoming  him  with  a  smile  that,  strange  to 
say,  did  not  impress  him  as  growing  feebler 
and  feebler.  All  at  once  the  light  of  life  went 
out,  dropping  down  suddenly  like  a  spent  can 
dle.  Now  it  burnt  steadily,  and  now  it  was 
gone ! 

Mr.  Fulton  was  stunned  by  the  shock.  He 
could  at  first  only  faintly  realize  the  fact,  and 
when  a  sympathizing  friend  said,  ' "  You  have 
had  time  to  prepare  for  this  sorrow :  the  death- 


408  WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER. 

angel  came  not  in  suddenly,"  he  scarcely  com 
prehended  his  meaning. 

From  the  hour  of  death  until  the  hour  of 
burial,  when  friends  gathered  in  funeral  solem 
nity,  and  all  that  dull  machinery  of  burial  that 
jars  and  rattles — be  the  adjustment  never  so 
carefully  made — was  set  in  motion,  Mr.  Fulton 
remained  in  a  half-stupefied  condition.  Once, 
since  the  vital  spark  went  out,  he  had  looked 
upon  the  dead  face  of  his  wife,  and  shuddered 
at  its  ghastly  whiteness.  He  could  not  force 
himself  to  a  second  view.  But  ere  the  coffin- 
lid  was  shut  down  over  it  for  ever,  drawn  for 
ward  by  a  friend,  he  stood  and  let  his  eyes  fall, 
in  dread  of  a  shock,  on  the  features  he  might 
never  again,  except  in  thought,  behold. 

If  sickness  and  pain  and  the  throes  of  disso 
lution  mar  the  countenance,  much  of  beauty 
and  sweetness  is  restored  during  that  brief  pro 
cess  of  interior  separation  of  soul  and  body 
which  goes  on  after  death  in  the  sensational 
and  external.  With  Mrs.  Fulton  this  had  been 
restored  in  a  remarkable  degree.  Few  signs 
of  exhaustion  or  suffering  remained.  The 
mouth  was  gently  shut  and  very  placid.  Her 
eyelids  rested  above  the  snowy  cheeks,  softly 


WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER.  409 

relieving  their  paleness  with  fringing  shadows — 
not  weighed  down  as  by  death,  but  with  the 
seeming  light  burden  of  sleep.  You  almost 
expected  to  see  them  quiver,  and  then  unveil 
the  orbs  which  lay  beneath.  Not  hardly  back 
from  the  marble  forehead  had  they  drawn  her 
hair,  but  in  light,  glossy  masses  gathered  it 
about  her  temples,  and  laid  it  just  away  from 
each  side  of  her  face,  yet  touching  it.  One 
hand  was  drawn  across  her  bosom,  the  other 
fell  easily  by  her  side.  A  few  flowers,  white 
and  red,  representing  the  pure  truth  and  warm 
love  of  her  character,  lay  upon  her  breast,  as  if 
dropped  there  without  art  and  left  where  they 
fell. 

Mr.  Fulton  let  his  eyes  fall  in  dread  of  a 
shock.  But  there  was  no  shock.  The  sight  he 
feared  to  look  upon  proved  a  vision  of  beauty. 
For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  the  lost  one  were 
restored,  and  he  bent  down  in  haste  to  lay  his 
lips  to  those  which  seemed  as  if  just  about  to 
smile  with  love's  warm  invitation.  Alas  !  in  the 
icy  touch  delusion  vanished.  It  was  death— - 
death !  Death  assuming  the  aspect  of  life,  and 
mocking  his  sudden  hope. 

It  was   all    over   at   last.     The  days  of  sad 


410  WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER. 

preparation,  in  which  the  soul  longs  for  seclu 
sion  and  undisturbed  self-communion,  but  finds 
them  not,  had  passed  with  Mr.  Fulton,  and  the 
time  came  when  he  could  sit  down  alone  and 
remember.  She  was  gone,  the  tender,  the  lov 
ing,  the  patient,  the  true-hearted !  Not  much 
of  the  funeral  services  or  the  preacher's  "im 
provement"  of  the  occasion  had  entered  his 
thoughts.  Still,  something  remained.  Of  the 
departed  he  had  spoken  with  much  feeling, 
saying,  among  other  things:  "We  who  are  in 
full  health,  in  the  flush  of  animal  life,  do  not 
realize  in  any  adequate  degree  the  lonely  ex 
periences,  the  heart-weariness,  the  longings  for 
day  in  the  night-watches,  and  the  longings  for 
night  in  the  tiresome  days,  of  those  whom  God 
is  preparing  by  wasting  sickness  to  become 
angels  in  his  kingdom.  If  you  have  any  such 
in  your  homes,  give  them  love,  and  care,  and 
cheerful  companionship.  Make  their  beds  soft 
in  sickness.  Give  them  smooth  pillows.  As 
for  our  departed  sister,  all  that  loving  care,  all 
that  tender  solicitude  could  give,  were  hers, 
and  in  the  hearts  that  mourn  her  to-day  there 
is  pure  grief  only." 

Pure  grief  only !       Mr.  Fulton  was  not  de- 


WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER.  41  I 

ceived.  He  could  not  take  this  delusion  into 
his  soul.  The  picture  had  flashed  on  him  with 
startling  vividness.  No,  he  had  not  realized  in 
any  degree  "  the  lonely  experiences,  the  heart- 
weariness,  the  longings  for  day  in  the  night- 
watches,  and  the  longings  for  night  in  the  tire 
some  days,"  of  her  whom  God  had  been  pre 
paring  by  wasting  sickness  to  become  an  angel 
in  his  kingdom.  But  it  was  all  revealed  now 
to  his  dull  apprehension.  How  stupid,  how 
blind,  how  self-inverted,  not  to  have  understood 
this  before ! 

Now,  when  it  was  all  over,  the  long  period  of 
life's  decadence,  the  unexpected  death  scene, 
and  the  low,  dull,  half-realized  misery  of  inter 
vening  days  until  the  time  of  burial  came,  and 
his  heart  lay  bruised  and  helpless  under  the 
weight  of  its  obtrusive  ceremonials, — now,  when 
it  was  all  over,  and  he  sat  alone  in  the  still 
chamber,  shivering  and  in  darkness,  where  for 
so  long  a  time  a  low  but  sweet  voice  had  made 
music  for  his  heart  and  a  pale  face  given  out 
light  warmer  and  purer  than  any  sunshine, 
memory  began  to  restore  the  past. 

".Must  you  go  out  this  evening,  dear?"  Mr. 
Fulton  actually  started  and  turned  his  eyes 


412  WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER. 

upon  the  empty  bed,  so  clearly  sounded  the* 
old  familiar  voice,  not  in  a  complaining  tone — 
not  burdened  with  weariness  or  suffering,  or 
shaded  with  the  anticipation  of  other  solitary 
hours  added  to  the  many  she  had  passed  since 
morning — but  with  forced  cheerfulness,  yet 
pleading.  If  the  pale  face  and  loving  eyes  had 
looked  over  to  him  from  the  pillow  now,  would 
he  have  answered  "  Yes  "  ? 

Ah,  memory,  memory,  unsleeping  Nemesis ! 
The  pale  face  and  loving  eyes  were  not  there, 
only  the  white  pillow,  smooth  and  full.  But 
memory  held  to  his  sight  the  picture  taken  on 
a  sensitive  page,  and  he  saw  himself  turning 
away  while  the  pleading  tones  yet  filled  his  ears 
— turning  away  and  shutting  the  door !  Oh,  the 
bitter  anguish  of  that  moment !  And  evening 
after  evening,  answering  to  the  earnest  yet 
never  chiding  question,  he  had  thus  turned 
away,  shutting  the  door ! 

White,  and  still,  and  patient !  His  eyes  are 
closed.  But  no  bodily  form  ever  stood  out 
more  clearly  defined  than  the  spectrum  now 
holding  his  vision.  White,  and  still,  and  pa 
tient,  as  he  had  looked  upon  her  so  many  hun 
dreds  of  times,  without  once  getting  down  into 


WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER.  413 

any  just  idea  of  her  true  consciousness.  Now 
a  new  revelation  had  come  to  him.  But  it  was 
too  late !  Her  feet  had  gone  down  into  the 
waters  of  Jordan,  she  had  passed  to  the  other 
side,  and  he  stood  weeping  on  the  shore  alone. 

Not  a  complaining  word,  not  a  chiding  look, 
haunted  him.  Always  a  lovelit  face  had  bright 
ened  at  his  coming,  and  patient  eyes  just  a  little 
shaded  held  him  up  to  the  last  instant  of  de 
parture,  never  closing  heavily  and  sadly  until 
the  door  was  shut.  But  conscience  and  memory 
haunted  him  now  with  crowding  accusations. 

Not  a  complaining  word,  not  a  chiding  look. 
What  was  the  record  on  the  other  side  ?  Had 
he  been  always  patient  and  uncomplaining  ? 

"  If  I  had  not  felt  so  weak,  Henry  !"  Was 
there  an  accusing  spirit  in  the  room?  No,  it 
was  in  Mr.  Fulton's  soul.  Memory  had  turned 
another  leaf  and  hurt  his  vision  with  another 
picture.  He  was  standing  with  hard  eyes  and 
stern  mouth  before  his  shrinking  wife,  who 
looked  up  with  a  hurt  expression  on  her  face 
and  tears  brimming  to  the  eyelids. 

"  If  I  had  not  felt  so  weak,  Henry !" 

Mr.  Fulton  turned  the  page  and  shut  his  ears. 
But  the  book  of  his  life  was  written  over  on 

35* 


41 4  WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER. 

every  leaf,  full  of  sentences  and  images  from 
margin  to  margin,  and  the  sentences  had  living 
voices. 

"  I  am  losing  strength  confined  to  these  close 
rooms." 

He  had  scarcely  heeded  the  words  when 
spoken.  How  distinctly  they  were  remembered 
now!  How  mournfully  prophetic  were  the 
tones  in  which  they  came  back  to  him  !  "  Los 
ing  strength !"  And  yet  he  had  not  taken 
warning  —  nay,  accepted  a  friend's  invitation 
for  an  afternoon's  ride  instead  of  going  out 
with  his  wife  !  He  fairly  shivered  now  when 
he  thought  of  it.  And  many  afternoons  the 
strong,  wide-chested,  full-blooded  man  had 
ridden  out,  drinking  in  the  living  country  air, 
while  she  drooped  at  home,  wasting  graveward 
for  the  lack  of  that  vital  stimulant  he  was 
absorbing  to  himself.  No  wonder  she  lost 
strength.  The  mystery  was  unraveled  now. 

And  thus  it  had  gone  on,  he  denying  himself 
nothing,  while  her  feebly  uttered,  scarcely  ob 
truded  wants  were  rarely  if  ever  compre 
hended  ;  she  slowly  drifting  away  the  while,  and 
he  not  perceiving  the  downward  pressure  of  the 
current  until  it  was  too  late  to  save  the  most 


WHEN  IT   WAS   OVER.  415 

precious  thing  that  God  had  given  to  bless  his 
life. 

When  it  was  over — the  last  scene  in  this  mor 
tal  drama — and  the  sympathizing  friends  were 
gone  away,  leaving  the  mourner  to  his  sorrow, 
his  loneliness  and  to  memory,  thus  it  was  with 
him.  Ah,  than  heartache  like  this,  so  hope 
less,  so  crushing,  so  beyond  the  reach  of  medi 
cine,  what  pain  is  not  easier  to  bear !  The 
wrong,  crystalized  by  death,  is  beyond  all 
recompense.  We  may  weep,  grieve,  we  may 
repent,  but  there  is  no  atonement.  For,  ever, 
out  of  the  unrelenting  past,  it  looks  back  upon 
us,  stern,  rebuking  and  accusing.  It  stands  a 
skeleton  in  the  house  of  our  life,  and  we  cannot 
clothe  it  with  flesh  nor  soften  the  stony  glare 
of  its  eyes.  Its  shadow  lies  always  on  our 
path,  and  it  has  power  to  darken  our  brightest 
days  with  a  sudden  cloud,  though  that  cloud  be 
no  larger  sometimes  than  a  human  hand  or  a 
pale,  loving  face  that  never  looked  upon  us 
with  rebuke  or  accusation. 

THE     END. 


' 


M100493 


??/ 


THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


